


The Bad Santa Clause

by Castielslostwings, jscribbles, MalMuses, pingnova, sobsicles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Christmas Fluff, Chubby Dean Winchester, Crack Treated Seriously, Dean Has A Lot To Learn About Body Positivity, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Getting Together, Irresponsible Indoor Rollerblade Use, Jack Kline Loves Christmas, Loosely Based On "The Santa Claus", M/M, Minor Angst, Mutual Pining, Pining, Season 14 Spoilers, So much Christmas, Vomiting, canon parallels to zachariah's methods of persuasion, coercive torture to gain consent to santa clausing, sam and cas get trapped inside a snow globe and have a bad time, which sounds pretty dramatic but it involves a snow globe so idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 74,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/pseuds/jscribbles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pingnova/pseuds/pingnova, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobsicles/pseuds/sobsicles
Summary: A quiet pre-Christmas hunt goes horribly wrong for the Winchesters, Castiel, and Jack when Dean accidentally murders Santa Claus.Ho ho ho, bitches.A seasonal canon collab loosely based onThe Santa Clause.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 400
Kudos: 524
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer

**Author's Note:**

> HO HO HO, MERRY CHRISTMAS!
> 
> I'm going to be straight up with you all: none of us had any intention of writing a Christmas fic, until one of those late night conversations on Discord that started as silly idea-bouncing and then got really, really out of hand.
> 
> You're welcome.
> 
> Strap in for a canon, crack-treated-very-seriously fic based on The Santa Clause.
> 
> Chapters will be coming to you daily, from now up until New Year's Eve, from myself (Mal!), jscribbles, castielslostwings, son_of_a_bitch_SPN_family, and pingnova. 
> 
> We hope you enjoy!

The headline read: Grandma Run Over by Reindeer!

“Oh, come on,” Dean said. “Really?”

The bunker kitchen was illuminated by an unflatteringly gray bulb, lacking any sunlight at all, and it wasn’t the easiest on the eyes in the morning before copious coffee adjustments had been made. The men assembled around the sturdy wooden breakfast table near the wall squinted grumpily at each other, doing their best to be civil.

“I know, I know,” Sam said, his hands coming up defensively, “but hear me out, okay?”

Dean raised his eyebrow, and then his spoon, slurping another gulp of chocolatey milk out of his breakfast bowl. 

“Alright, technically she wasn't run over—she was crushed, ” Sam continued, spinning the laptop around, reading from the  _ Minnesota Daily  _ website on screen. “Eda Milsom, sixty-eight years old, was getting a head start on her Christmas shopping on Black Friday in Anoka, when she was crushed by a reindeer outside of Jenson’s Department Store.” 

Dean carried on staring. At the other side of the table, Castiel lifted his head up from the cup of coffee that he was nursing—for appearances, Dean guessed—and fixed Sam with a rather flat look. “Dean, when you were raising your brother, did you forget to tell him that reindeer are real?”

Taken by surprise, Dean snorted chocolate milk through his nose. “Wow, Cas. Nice,” he said, grinning. “We’ll make a full-fledged Winchester of you yet, angel boy.” 

Sam folded his arms across his chest and did the thing that he always did when Dean offended him: forcibly straightened his face, his eyebrows rising dramatically up his five-head, and pursed his lips as he pushed his hair back behind his ears. The sight of the much-loved expression made Dean smirk into his cereal bowl.

“Are you honestly trying to tell me—both of you!—that there is nothing even slightly weird about a reindeer  _ falling out of the sky? _ ” Sam demanded, his arms spread in exasperation.

Castiel and Dean exchanged a slightly resigned look. “Fine,” Castiel said, gesturing for Sam to continue. “Tell us your theory.”

“About flying reindeer,” Dean snorted into his milk.

“Well if you would just let me tell the rest of the story—”

“Dean,” Castiel cautioned gently, angling his head forward. It was a look very few people could have gotten away with giving Dean, but he managed.

Looking up, Dean held Castiel’s eye for a moment, and the angel gave him a gently reprimanding eyebrow raise. Fine, Dean could play nice. For, like, three more minutes. If Sam mentioned an elf, he was out.

“The reindeer’s remains were removed from the site by animal control,” Sam continued pointedly. “They went to autopsy the deer later that same day—and it was gone.”

Reluctantly, Dean put down his spoon. “Someone wanted to make Bambi pie, Christmas edition?”

“Gross, Dean.” Sam rolled his eyes. “No. It disappeared. Poof. Gone.” 

“Is there anything else of note?” Castiel asked, reaching over to switch his coffee mug with Dean’s empty one. Dean smiled gratefully before turning his attention back to Sam.

“Yeah, there is actually. Eyewitnesses”—Sam tugged the laptop closer—”say they heard jingling before the reindeer fell.”

“Jingling,” Dean said dryly.

“Jingling,” Sam repeated firmly. 

“I am not going all the way to Minnesota for jingling, Samantha. It’s a seven-hour drive.”

“Okay, well, what about the fact that when they tested what they thought was reindeer blood from the woman’s clothes—they were worried it might be carrying rabies or some such—it didn’t match the DNA profile of any known animal?”

Dean sighed. This was utterly fucking ridiculous, but yet, he could feel a seven hour drive coming on. And to Minnesota, nonetheless—he’d have to put snow tires on poor Baby. 

“Need a little more, Sam,” Dean tried. 

“It’s thirty miles northwest of Minneapolis, where they have a restaurant that serves only pie.”

“You think I’m so easy to buy,” Dean said, grabbing his his coffee—Castiel’s coffee, technically—from the table and pushing back his chair.

Castiel watched Dean rise from the table with unconcealed amusement. “Aren’t you?”

“Enough from you, chuckles. Let's go wake the kid and pack.” 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

By the time Jack had been roused, they were ready to go. Dean and Sam were experts at quick packing, and Castiel didn’t carry much beyond...well, whatever it was he had in that duffle of his, other than his favorite sawn off shotgun and whatever dull lore books he was currently enjoying. Since Jack had become pretty much human, his grace taken by Lucifer during the whole Michael mess, he’d turned into the typical teenager when it came to sleeping. It took him longer to get out of bed than it took Dean. 

Though, Dean’s early mornings were definitely brighter than they’d once been. If that had anything to do with the quiet hour drinking coffee in the kitchen with Castiel, while Sam went for his daily run, then no one needed to know that but Dean.

Well, Castiel probably knew.

Maybe.

Dean wasn’t gonna check. That meant labelling feelings that had been just fine unlabelled for years, thank-you-very-much. Dean didn’t know what he was to the angel, but the fact was that for whatever reason, Castiel had stayed. Whereas previously he’d always gone off to do his own thing, since Michael... something had shifted. Without announcing it, seamlessly, Castiel had stayed. Even though Dean was an angry mess, often, even though there were cases and people calling for an angel’s help all the time, Castiel had stayed. 

Stayed with Dean.

Okay, maybe Dean was just projecting that part. Or maybe he wasn’t. But hell, Thanksgiving had just passed, and quietly enough that they’d been able to take an hour to eat deep fried turkey legs at a diner. Wasn’t he allowed to be thankful, and not question it too much, just this once?

Four duffles in Baby’s trunk, and they were ready to head on their way. 

“Dean,” Jack piped up from the back next to Castiel about an hour into the journey, “do you have any Christmas music?”

It took willpower for Dean not to slam on the brakes right that moment. “Christmas music? Like—cheesy carols and hark the herald angels sing? Not in this car, kid.” 

“Didn’t Bruce Springsteen cover—” Sam began from the passenger seat.

Dean drowned him out with a loud blast of Zeppelin. “Can’t hear you Sammy, sorry!”

It continued like that for a couple more hours until they stopped to get gas. They all piled out of the car to stretch their limbs for a moment while Dean stepped inside the Gas’n’Sip to top up their supplies of jerky and soda. He was feeling the smallest, tiniest, weeniest bit guilty. Jack was a kid—Yeah, an overgrown angel kid, but he was still very much a kid. He deserved Christmas. Dean had always gone out of his way to do what he could for Sam when he was younger. Believing in Santa hadn’t really been much of a thing in their house; if a dude in a red suit had come down the chimney of their motel (not that motels, as a rule, have chimneys), Dean would’ve shot him. Probably still would. But Jack...he was so innocent, sometimes. Approaching the register, Dean grabbed a big candy cane and a couple of bags of sugary Christmas gummies. He even ordered a hot chocolate for the kid in a cheery Christmas cup.

Dean still drew the line at Christmas music in the car, though. Fuck that. 

When he stepped back out onto the forecourt, Sam, Castiel, and Jack were stood next to the gas pump, deep in discussion. Dean took a moment to appreciate the way the golden sunlight of the chill, wintery morning caught Castiel’s tanned cheekbones as his head lifted, spotting Dean. The breeze that softly tousled Castiel’s thick hair was pretty damn cold, but Dean didn’t hurry as he approached the group. He sent Castiel a small smile, and his heart warmed oddly as it was returned.

“Dean,” Sam said as he approached. “We were talking about the case and what Minnesota is like in December, seeing as Jack has never been. And we just realized that without his grace...we need to get Jack some winter clothes.”

Dean looked over at Jack, juggling his arms full of candy and treats, and blinked. “Oh.”

Standing next to Sam in nothing but a long-sleeved gray henley shirt, Jack gave him an awkward smile. “I’m sorry, Dean. I have a jacket but Sam tells me it’s not—”

“Nah,” Dean shook his head, waving the kid’s words off as best he could with his hands full of snacks. “It’s not a big deal. We can hit up a big Wally World in Des Moines or something, that’s about half way there.”

Dean sighed to himself as he settled back behind the Impala’s wheel. Why did people always assume he was gonna react negatively to the dumbest shit? Yes, he would admit, his track record was poor. But he was really trying to be better. To let stuff go. To try and be a Dean that he could feel proud of being, again. One that wasn’t constantly hurting, defensive, and afraid of things getting worse with every step.

He’d been turning leaves, damnit—or whatever that expression was. Was it too much for someone to fucking notice?

The passenger-side door thumped, and Dean looked up to see Castiel folding his trenchcoat about himself as he settled onto the leather. He threw Dean another smile, a longer one this time—small, but all crinkly around the eyes. Alright, so someone noticed, at least. If he was honest, Castiel had been the person Dean had been trying hardest with since Michael. He deserved it. After all the shit they’d been through… yeah, he deserved it.

“Are you going to drive?” Sam piped up from the back. “Or are we back to intense staring  _ a la _ two-thousand-and-eight?”

His cheeks burning, Dean tore out of the parking lot. Castiel, the little shit, merely looked serenely out the window. 

“So.” Dean cleared his throat after three miles of highway. “Stopping in Des Moines?”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed from behind him. “Makes sense. Big city like that will have the best selection. Walmart will be cheapest, and likely have everything in one stop.”

“Be time for lunch then, too—hey, wasn’t Des Moines where Bobby said he took Karen, that time?” Dean asked, craning his neck back for a moment to direct his question to Sam.

“You know, I think it was!” Sam said, and Dean could hear his grin.

“Who is Karen?” Jack asked curiously. He was sat next to Sam in the back, his legs pulled up on the seat. Dean frowned, ready to bite out instructions that he get his damn Converse off of Baby’s leather—but he took a breath, and tried to let it go.

“Karen was Bobby’s wife,” he ground out instead, eyes on the road. “Uh, first Bobby. Not… y’know, other Bobby. Though she was probably Karen too, I guess? Gonna assume, didn’t ask.”

Dean caught Jack nodding in his peripheral vision as Sam took up the story.

“When Bobby and Karen were younger, he brought her up here just before Christmas once, to Des Moines.”

“For a case?” Jack asked.

“Nah, this was back before all that, I think. When Karen was alive, Bobby was probably still short-tempered, but maybe a little less shotgun-happy,” Dean interjected.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “He just brought her here for a weekend, I think. Christmas shopping. They went ice skating in the city.  _ Bobby!  _ Ice skating!”

Dean couldn’t help a chuckle. “Yeah, kinda hard to picture our old grump doing that. Wonder why he did.”

“I suppose,” Castiel said from the front seat, “that he did it because he cared about his wife a lot, and he wanted to make good memories with her. Even when I met him, he still loved her. His soul was always bright, always giving...even when it was clouded with whiskey and shell smoke.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, smiling at the steering wheel. “That’s true. Somewhere under that puffy vest and baseball cap, there’s a big ol’ sap. I bet family Christmases were his thing.”

“Definitely,” said Sam. “And the way Karen used to cook? I bet they were delicious, too.”

“So, Bobby brought his wife all the way to Des Moines just to make memories with her?” Jack spoke up. “Then I’m glad we’re stopping there. Maybe we can make some too.”

Dean rolled his eyes a little at the sentiment, but he couldn’t help his mouth twitching into a smile as he changed lanes on the highway. “Well, maybe not in Des Moines, buddy. We’ll just stop off quick and get you some clothes—we’ve got a pancaked grandma to investigate.”

Sitting quietly in the passenger seat, Castiel tensed up a little—Dean could practically sense it. Crap. 

Taking a look up into the rearview mirror, Dean could see Jack deflate slightly as he said, “Oh, yes. Of course. I understand.”

Jack deserved more than cases, more than hunting.

“But, y’know,” Dean started again, craning his neck up to try and catch Jack’s eyes in the mirror as he drove, “it’s gonna be Christmas soon. And for once, the world isn’t ending, so maybe we can make some new memories around that, okay?”

“Christmas!” Jack said, beaming. “Yes! We should do that. Make Christmas memories.”

Next to him, Dean noted Castiel’s shoulders relax a little. Crisis averted. Dean felt strangely proud.

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Sam suggested, leaning forward over the front bench as Dean pulled off I-80 and into the parking lot of a sprawling superstore next to a dingy strip mall. 

“What for?” 

“No point in all of us suffering through the horrors of a Super Walmart,” Sam pointed out. “One of us can take Jack and meet up with the other two later.”

“Smart,” Dean said, nodding approvingly. “Knew I raised you right. Alright, one, two—”

“Three!” Sam joined in, shooting his hand out in scissor formation.

“Aha!” Dean brandished his “rock” fist triumphantly. “Enjoy being in Hell again, sucker.”

“The cage smelled better than that place will,” Sam grumbled. With a shrug, he turned back to look at Jack. “Ready for this, kid?”

Jack looked very concerned. He peered out of the Impala window, squinting up at the looming green sign, several letters predictably un-illuminated, that welcomed them to “ _ Wa - ma - t” _ in hideous yellow-on-blue. “Will they have...Christmas things?” he asked hopefully.

“Sure.” Sam tried to sound grumbly, but his smile gave him away. “We can get a few things. We haven’t used the credit cards much this month, a tree and some shiny stuff won’t hurt.”

“A tree?!” Jack ejected from Baby at full speed, galloping off toward the door.

“Oh, boy,” Sam said, rolling his eyes to the sky before sliding out of the car after Jack. “Alright—you two have fun. I’ll text you when we’re done.” 

Dean and Castiel both waved, biting back smiles. 

“He’s going to come back laden with plastic and glitter, isn’t he?” Castiel said quietly as they watched Sam slalom between swarming Christmas shoppers to chase down Jack.

“Oh yeah,” Dean said, nodding decisively. “Bunker’s gonna look like an elf threw up.”

“Christmas elves aren’t real, Dean,” Castiel pointed out, still watching as Sam caught up with his charge, who was talking animatedly and waving his arms.

“I know that, you know that,” Dean said as he restarted Baby’s engine. “Jack? Not so sure he knows that.”

Castiel chuckled, looking away from the store and angling himself slightly toward Dean. “So...shall we?” he asked.

“Shall we what?” Dean asked warily, his eyes on the parking lot as he tried to suppress his urge to run over a woman in a vivid orange sweat-pant suit who was plodding her way to the cart corral, with eight kids in tow, and blocking everyone's way out.

“Do as Sam said, and have some fun,” Castiel said quietly, almost nervously.

His tone drew Dean’s attention away from the People of Walmart parade that was happening near the exit door. “You and me?” he said carefully, feeling oddly buoyant. “You wanna hang out and do something fun while we wait for Sam to be done babysitting Buddy the Elf?”

Castiel looked briefly confused, but nodded regardless. “Yes. We don’t have to, of course,” he added, in a hurried, awkward way that made Dean’s chest deflate. “Not at all. We can just sit in the car, or go research some possible—”

“Hey, man, no—” Dean interrupted quickly. “Let’s go do something fun. We don’t ever get to spend much time alone, just the two of us and...well, maybe we should, sometimes.”

The soft, tiny smile that pulled at Castiel’s features was worth every awkward word, even if he did direct it toward his lap, rather than Dean. “Very well then,” he said. “What should we do?”

Dean took a moment to pull out onto the busy road outside of the strip mall, looking back and forth carefully. Walmarts were prime spots for crazy drivers and belligerent wing-mirror thieves, and he was going to make sure Baby survived this trip intact, if it was the last thing he did. Once he’d settled safely back into traffic, he looked over to the side, fixing Castiel with one of his best, mega-watt smiles. 

“You tell me, Cas. You’re the one who's never done a lot of fun, human stuff. Anything we can do here that you’ve always wanted to try?”

Castiel looked out at the skyline, his eyes bouncing around as he took in all the buildings and options. Dean gave him a minute, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the old Creedence Clearwater Revival tape that quietly filled the Impala. He snuck a few looks at Castiel’s profile in the wintery sunlight, wishing he was brave enough to take a picture of the way it haloed his wild, dark brown hair, making him look more angelic than he ever usually did, these days. But of course he wasn’t, so he settled for gazing across at him whenever the traffic idled.

Turning back to Dean suddenly, Castiel blinked as he caught Dean staring—but of course, Dean didn’t stop, and they studied each other for a long minute, until Dean eventually cleared his throat and remembered to look at the road. “Thought of something?”

“Perhaps,” Castiel said. There was a tiny twitch to his fingers, his thumb rubbing almost imperceptibly at the edge of his trench coat belt where it trailed on his thigh. He was nervous, Dean realized, trying not to look like he’d noticed. 

“Well, out with it,” Dean said warmly. “Whatever it is, I promise it’s fine. As long as it’s not Christmas caroling, you’re good.”

“I’d never ask you to do that, Dean,” Castiel replied, smiling. “I know better. No, I was actually wondering if, well…” He trailed off, raising a hand to point up a big building in the distance to their right. 

As it came into view more clearly, Dean squinted and made out:  _ Brenton Skating Plaza. _

Dean blinked hard.  _ Oh.  _ He certainly didn’t have anything against ice skating as such—he’d never done it, but how hard could it be? But after mentioning only a short while earlier that Bobby and Karen had done it, and Castiel’s quiet suggestion that perhaps Bobby did it just because he loved his wife and wanted to make her happy...there were implications. Or were there? Was he making this a thing when it wasn’t a thing? And even if it was a thing, did that make him Bobby, or Karen?

“We don’t have to,” Castiel said carefully, looking uncertain at Dean’s pause.

Dean stoically packed his internal baggage away into his deep dumpster of existential crises to deal with later, and smiled. “You wanna ice skate with me? What the angel wants, the angel gets. Though I’m gonna warn you, I’ve never been, and I’m probably gonna cut off some fingers like in a horror movie.”

“Lovely,” said Castiel dryly. “I can’t wait.” 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

Predictably, the ice skating rink was cold and busy. But, Dean had to begrudgingly admit, seeing the ice surrounded by Christmas decorations, kids in wooly bobble hats, and even a stand selling goofy Christmas gifts and hot chocolate...it was kinda nice. 

Castiel was standing out on the ice already, gazing calmly across the zipping skaters as they careened around the rink, with his back perfectly straight. He balanced on his ice skate blades like it was nothing. Dean, on the other hand, clung desperately to the railing and tried not to panic. Ice, it turned out, was slippery.

He could do this, damnit. Castiel wanted to do it, wanted to spend time with him, doing this...thing, whatever they were doing. And like hell was Dean gonna screw that up. He’d faced down Lucifer himself. (Multiple times by now, at that.) He could survive ice skating.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asked, appearing at Dean’s side with a few swift pushes of his powerful, muscled thighs.

Not that Dean was thinking about his thighs. 

“Yeah! Yeah, of course,” Dean bluffed, shrugging with the side of him that wasn’t occupied clawing at the railing. “Just getting my bearings a bit, ‘s all.” 

Castiel stood facing him, his hand resting on the railing next to Dean’s. “It takes a minute to find your balance the first time, I believe.”

“Y’don’t say,” Dean grumbled lightly. “How’re you so good at this anyway, dude?”

Castiel’s smile was serene, and contained only the slightest evidence of him being a smirky little shit. “What’s the matter, Dean?” he asked, pushing off and spinning in a slow circle, his hands up as if to say,  _ what, little ol’ me? _ “Surely you aren’t jealous of my superior muscle control.”

“To quote a friend of mine,” Dean said through a chuckle, “was that a flirtation?” He fixed Castiel with a dramatic wink, half in jest but...yeah, maybe half serious, too.

“Uh—” Castiel blinked and suddenly wobbled, his left ice skate coming out from under him for a moment. Slightly flushed, he reached out to grab the railing at Dean’s side, skating back in next to him. “You did that on purpose,” he pointed out, looking disgruntled.

Dean noted the adorable reaction and filed away the fact that Castiel could apparently  _ blush _ under certain circumstances for later. Feeling bolder, Dean grinned across at him. “Sure did, Cas. It’s nice to see you a little flustered, for a change, gotta admit,” he teased, before relaxing his smile. “I’m glad you’re having fun. That was the point after all.”

“Not the whole point,” Castiel said. “I was hoping you’d have fun, too.”

“I am,” Dean reassured him. He took a deep breath, and tried to repay a little of the bravery that Castiel had shown by suggesting that they come here. Together. Just the two of them...if that’s what this was. Which, he still wasn’t sure. Just increasingly hoping. “Really. Even if I suck at this, I don’t care. I’m just enjoying spending time with you.”

Castiel’s lips parted, then closed, and for a moment he looked a little lost...but then he lifted his head, met Dean’s eyes, and quirked up one side of his mouth. “Same,” he said, gentler than the word should be.

Well, that was a green light, right? Why was this so hard? It wasn’t like Dean had never done this before, he was kind of an expert. But Castiel was different. This whole thing was different...there was history, and friendship to risk, and so many things that told Dean it was a bad, bad idea. He’d believed that for years.

Then Michael.

Everything he was, everything he held dear, had seemed so much more fragile since Michael. Since the archangel had invaded his mind and taken his body and violated him in ways that no one on this Earth, except maybe Castiel, could ever understand.

And since then...Castiel stayed. And that had been the biggest green flag of all.

Dean forced air out between his lips, puffed his cheeks, then sucked in a loud breath. “Alright,” he announced, sticking out a hand toward Castiel. “I’m leaving the railing. But you’re gonna have to help me.”

Leaving the railing turned out to be simpler to say than to do, but with Castiel’s hand in his, Dean slowly made it out onto the ice. It was a lot easier to just focus on the warm, strong fingers that supported him than actually worry about faceplanting onto the rink floor. After a few steps (Slides? Shuffles?), Castiel turned Dean’s hand in his and moved slightly behind him, his other hand coming to sit at the base of Dean’s back as he very gently pushed him forward. He guided Dean around other skaters and away from walls, and skated close, his body solid and reachable if Dean should begin to fall.

Dean closed his eyes, and just trusted his angel. He was falling, alright. Or already had, years ago...but now wasn’t the time for all that, not yet.

Now was the time to make sure he didn’t end up going ass over teakettle in front of a bunch of giggly hipster teenagers. Priorities. 

“You’re doing very well, Dean,” Castiel complimented him after a few minutes. 

Dean huffed out a laugh, opening his eyes to look sideways at Castiel. “More like you’re doing well, and I’m just along for the ride.”

Castiel grinned, and it was toothy and wide and rare. “Should I point out that you’re actually letting me help you, which by itself is momentous?”

Throwing Castiel a small glare, Dean nodded toward the hot chocolate stand, in a cordoned-off corner of the rink. “How about it?” he said, searching for a distraction.

Arching a brow, Castiel turned them in that direction, even as he said, “You know I don’t need to drink. But it is, I suppose, a sort of tradition.”

“Too right it is,” Dean agreed. “And you can just share mine, if you want.” Because isn’t that what people did, on...those things, that Dean was carefully avoiding categorizing this as? Share stuff? 

“Very well,” Castiel agreed, helping Dean past the cordon and into the short line for the kiosk. 

They spent the few minutes that they waited trying on stupid Christmas hats from a spinner next to the register; Dean grinned and plopped a light-up Santa hat onto his head, before—despite his protests—forcing Castiel into a headband with a bobbing, tinsel halo attached to a spring. Dean wasn’t the selfie type of person, but Castiel didn’t say a word as he held his phone up, fitting them both into the screen. He even managed to grin, white teeth and gums preserved on camera, his face right next to Dean’s. 

Dean tucked his phone back away into his pocket and collected their hot chocolate while Castiel replaced the two goofy hats on the spinner. Forcing himself not to overthink it, Dean reached down and slipped his frozen hand into Castiel’s, under the pretense of his shitty skating—obviously. They shuffled forward on the ice only slowly, Dean bringing the paper cup up to his lips for a tiny sip.

“Typical,” Dean grumbled lightly. “Drink too hot, hands too cold.”

Castiel tugged on Dean’s hand, pulling him carefully to a stop and spinning them so that they faced each other. “Here,” he said quietly, dropping his voice as if he was sharing a secret. “Let me.”

Castiel reached forward, taking the lid off the top of Dean's cup of hot chocolate. He leaned in, as if to blow softly across the surface to cool it—only Dean was close enough to see that he inhaled instead, and notice the soft glow of golden grace in his eyes and in the floating steam that he sucked softly between his lips. Taking the cup from Dean, Castiel put it down on the top of the stomach-high wall next to them that surrounded the edge of the rink. Then he reached for Dean’s hands, taking both of them in his, and brought them up to his mouth. Dean blinked, suppressing his quiet gasp of surprise as Castiel blew warm, grace-tinged air across his hands, cocooned within Castiel’s own. Not just his fingertips, but his whole body warmed, tingling and familiar in a way that only an angel’s grace could be. 

Almost shy in his motion, Castiel let go of Dean’s hands and reached for the hot chocolate, handing it back to him. 

It was the perfect temperature.

Dean couldn’t help but grin, letting out a little chuckle, and he couldn’t manage much seriousness to his voice when he reminded Castiel, “You know you shouldn’t waste your grace on silly little things like that, Cas.”

“It made you smile,” Castiel confessed, looking down at the hot chocolate. “That’s not silly, to me.”

The air between them was suddenly charged and electric, and Dean knew the exact feeling that surrounded them—but he didn’t know what to do with it. Neither, it seemed, did Castiel. So, they both cleared their throats awkwardly, and slowly skated onward. 

They were doing just fine—Dean had even let go of Castiel for a moment and skated a few feet by himself, once the hot chocolate was done and they could go back onto the rink proper—until a gaggle of happily screaming children zoomed in their direction. Alarmed, Dean tried to sidestep quickly, his skate flying out behind him as he reached for Cas. In slow motion, Castiel’s expression morphed from mild amusement to  _ “Oh, oh shit—”  _ as Dean careened into him, arms flailing and ice skates no longer on the ground. 

_ “Ooof!” _ Castiel let out a soft sound as Dean flattened him onto the ice. 

“Oh, fuck—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Dean managed, gasping to replace the air that had been punched out of his lungs as he went straight down on top of Castiel, landing in a tangle of trench coat and limbs. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Dean,” Castiel said calmly, reaching up to place his hands on Dean’s biceps and steady him. “Are you okay?”

“The humiliation might kill me, but otherwise I’m fine,” Dean replied. He reached out, putting his hands on the ice, and tried to gain some traction with the toes of his ice skates so that he could stand, and not be crushing Castiel entirely into the floor...but he flailed, and flapped, and it just wasn’t happening. “I, uh, don’t think I can get up.”

“Well I don’t think we can stay like this, Dean,” Castiel said earnestly. “People are staring at us.”

Dean scrambled off Castiel in a panic, rolling to the side and landing on his back on the ice with another “ _ Ooof!”  _

Castiel glided back up to his feet like a goddamn arctic gazzelle or some shit, if such a stupid damn thing would ever exist, and stood smirking down at Dean like the sassy little fucker he could increasingly be as the years went on.

“I hate you,” Dean moaned in defeat.

“Of course,” Castiel said, reaching down to pull Dean to his feet. 

Once Dean was back upright as he should be, Castiel reached out to hold his biceps gently while he regained his equilibrium. Then he pushed off, gliding Dean backwards on the ice.

“Cas!” Dean gasped out, his eyes widening. There was no way he could—

“Don’t think about it,” Castiel advised. “Just relax. Look at me. You’re fine.”

The ice skating rink flew past increasingly faster, all under Castiel’s steam. Dean merely stood, clinging back onto Castiel’s arms, and let himself be pushed across the ice. Castiel was right— as long as he didn’t look out at the way the other skaters were zooming by and didn’t think about what his feet were doing, it was fine. Instead, all that was around him was Castiel. Overhead, the strains of  _ Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas _ floated through the air. The rink smelled surprisingly good, the softly chill air carrying notes of hot chocolate and slightly sweet, fake snow. Castiel’s hands on Dean were a whole other thing to think about—how they felt there, touching him for longer than Castiel had ever done without there being some kind of imminent, supernatural disaster. He was staring into Castiel’s eyes, and Castiel was staring right back, and it should have been awkward as fuck between them given their history, their mistakes, everything they’d been through, but it just...wasn’t. Dean cleared his throat, wracking his brain for something—anything—to say. 

“I’m still a bit cold,” he blurted out, apropos of nothing.  _ What the fuck, Dean? _ he thought, internally rolling his eyes while trying to play it cool. 

“Oh,” Castiel blinked. “Well, I don’t feel the cold. You could take my coat, if you wanted.”

“We could share,” Dean intoned cheekily, going for coy and quite possibly missing by a mile.

Castiel frowned, his brow creasing into little ridges that Dean wanted to trail his fingers across. His hands twiched on Castiel’s forearms where they were resting, but he resisted the urge. “We couldn’t both fit,” Castiel was saying. “Mathematically, it’s just not—”

Dean stopped thinking, and let go of Castiel’s arms. He lowered his hands and brought them to Castiel’s waist, quickly tucking them back behind the angel, underneath the trench coat so that they were chest to chest within the beige fabric. 

“Told ya,” Dean said, pretending that his voice was even.

Castiel hitched in a sharp breath, and Dean felt it fill his ribcage, up against Dean’s own. They were so close, and yet there was nothing strange about it, nothing uncomfortable—just a building, growing buzz deep in Dean’s chest. His heart was swelling like the fucking Grinch, and he couldn’t even bring himself to think it was cheesy, or ridiculous, or stupid. Because it wasn’t, it was all perfect, every last movement and second. Castiel’s tongue darted out, moistening his peachy lower lip, and Dean couldn’t help but track the motion with his eyes longingly.

Dean felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was probably Sam telling them he and Jack were finally done at Walmart, he guessed. Castiel was close enough that he must’ve heard or felt it too, because his eyes dipped briefly downward.

“Probably just Sam,” Dean breathed out, not looking away from Castiel. 

Castiel hadn’t said anything about Dean’s cheesy little maneuver, but he hadn’t pulled back or pushed Dean away, either. What he did do was slow his skating, spinning them gradually to a stop near the railing. 

“We should probably go then,” Castiel said with a small nod.

But he didn’t step back, and Dean didn’t make any move to put space between them either. Even with the movement of their twirling toward the wall, ( _ Show off,  _ Dean thought,) they were still only a few inches apart. Dean slowly slipped his arms from around Castiel’s back, until his hands were resting on his hips. Dean licked his lips, just as Castiel had done…and in turn, Castiel’s gaze followed. 

Dean let out a shaky breath. There was only one place this could be going, surely? He couldn’t be that crazy, Castiel  _ wanted _ this, right? Or he was at least open to it, receptive? 

Deep in Dean’s stomach, a bunch of rocks danced along to The Nutcracker as it played through the speaker system above them, but he ignored their churning and spinning, and took a breath. And then another. One more, and then…

He leaned in.

There was a second—an intense, heart-stopping, world-spinning, undeniable second—where everything Dean could hear went quiet, and the lights went dim, and all the other movement around them stopped, and Dean’s lungs became too big for his chest...and then Castiel was pulling back, and grabbing his arms, and all the noise and movement and bright lights came back with a horrifying  _ whoosh. _

“Woah,” Castiel said amiably, smiling warmly as he squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “No more falling over for you. We should hurry, I’m sure Sam has had a trying time.”

“I—uh. Yeah,” Dean said dumbly, blinking, lost.

“Do you need help getting back to the gate?” Castiel asked, a tiny grin pulling up his lips.

Dean’s chest was aching oddly and he just… he just wanted—

“No,” he snapped roughly. “I’m fine.” He pulled himself along to the gate using the railing, no longer looking at Castiel. Just one glance at his confused, sad expression as Dean turned, huffing, was enough.

They were silent as they changed their shoes and then moved back to the Impala without a word, the foot of pavement between them cold and wide.

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

Anoka, Minnesota, was...tiny, but kinda cute, if you were into the whole small-town America vibe. Dean thought it looked like every other town of less than twenty-thousand people that they’d driven past in the last four hours, and probably every other in the middle of this giant landmass, but there was a chance he was just in a really foul mood. In fact, he was in such a foul mood that Sam had already called dibs on Castiel for when they split up to interview witnesses, leaving Dean with Jack.

Jack, who was sat in the back of the car, wearing a hideously patterned Christmas sweater and staring out of the window at all the twinkling lights on main street, like an oblivious puppy in a charity animal rescue segment on morning TV. 

Sam had attempted conversation a few times, but Dean’s answers had been waspish and Castiel had straight up ignored him, staring at his shoes in the back next to Jack and wearing a deep, thoughtful frown the whole way from Des Moines.

Poor Sam.

“Cas, let’s go,” Sam barked as soon as Dean pulled up outside the police station. “If I stay in this car a minute longer, I might suffocate.”

“That’s your farts,” Dean grumbled, but it was weak and he knew it. He headed back down 3rd Street after leaving Sam and Castiel in their suits, and found a spot to park Baby outside of the Chamber of Commerce.

“Dean, is something wrong?” Jack asked as soon as they hit the pavement, his small frown full of such genuine concern that Dean fixed his eyes on the sidewalk, unable to look at it. “You don’t seem to be feeling the Christmas spirit.”

Dean gestured for them to cross the street, heading to the local diner while Sam and Castiel tried to get their hands on the police reports. “I’m fine,” he lied. 

Even Jack, as gullible as he could sometimes be, didn’t seem to be buying it.

They walked down past Jenson’s Department Store, the spot where the erstwhile Ms. Milsom had been squashed by something posing as Rudolph. Or, an actual reindeer—that part still remained to be seen. A lone city worker stood on the road with a long-handled broom, scrubbing and bleaching at a dark spot that Dean didn’t want to think about too much. They headed another block down the street before Dean settled on  _ G’s Diner _ , a homely-enough looking place that had a decent amount of locals clustered inside, grabbing dinner. 

“Alright,” Dean said beneath his breath. “You stay with me, and you don’t ask awkward questions, capiche?”

“I capiche,” Jack said solemnly, still smiling like he was posing for a family Christmas card. His sweater  _ flashed _ for Christ’s sake! 

“And don’t smile so much,” Dean added in a growl as they entered the diner. “You’re gonna freak people out, kid.”

The first two people they spoke to in the diner, the guy behind the counter and their waitress, were both busts. Dean considered approaching a man who was eating by himself in the corner, but before he could move over toward him, a petite, Asian-looking girl in a varsity sweater stepped into Dean’s eyeline, hovering suspiciously.

Dean raised an eyebrow at her.

“You were asking about Eda,” she said.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded, sliding farther into the booth they occupied to offer her a seat. “You know anything about that?”

This girl, it seemed, was going to make their lives easy. Maybe today wasn’t a total shit-show after all...only the most important parts of it, Dean thought bitterly. 

“Yes,” the girl said. “Are you cops?”

Dean shook his head, gesturing down at his plaid. “Nah. Reporters from  _ Minnesota Daily _ .”

She nodded, apparently familiar. “Oh, okay. Good. That’s good.”

“Why?” Dean questioned, turning toward her and ducking down slightly, trying to reduce his frame and appear as non-threatening as he could. “You got something that you wanted to tell the cops?”

She shook her head firmly, her long braid of dark hair swinging. “No way. They’d think I was crazy, y’know?”

Dean and Jack exchanged a look over the table.

“Well, we won’t,” Jack said. “We promise. We hear a lot of weird stuff...as reporters.” He looked pointedly at Dean, smiling and nodding his head awkwardly. 

_ That damn kid _ , Dean thought.

The girl looked at Jack a little oddly, but turned back to Dean anyway. “Well, I’m not gonna tell you my name. So at least you can’t publish anything about me.”

“Fair enough,” Dean agreed. “Anonymous source, I get you. So, what happened that morning?”

“It was just like you said in your first article,” she said, clearly buying the  _ Minnesota Daily  _ reporter thing. “Eda was just crossing the street. She’d just come out of Jenson’s—I work there part-time, and she’d been Black Friday shopping. I was going on break and...and, well, it’s like you said. Reindeer. Splat.” 

Dean grimaced slightly. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Did you, uh, notice anything else?”

She nodded, and her voice dropped conspiratorially. “Don’t tell me I’m nuts. I already know this is—look, there was jingling, okay? Like...bells. So I looked up, and…”

“And?” Jack coaxed her onward as she looked between them fearfully.

“There was a sleigh,” she squeaked. It came out too fast, all squished together. There-was-a-sleigh.  _ Therewasasleigh. There. Was. A. Sleigh. _

Holy shit.

“Santa!” Jack breathed out the word, but his face lit up like a Christmas tree. Oh boy.

Dean cleared his throat. Time to tackle this one head on. “But Santa isn’t real,” he said flatly, looking at the girl with both his eyebrows raised, and deliberately ignoring Jack. Whatever his expression was, Dean didn’t wanna see it.

“I know that,” she hissed back, looking around quickly before turning back to Dean, her jeans squeaking on the cheap leatherette in the booth. “I’m not  _ crazy _ , okay? I’m just telling you what I  _ saw. _ It was way up high, but it was headed downward really fast.”

“Downward?” Dean echoed.

“Yeah, toward the Rum River...it probably didn’t make it any more than a mile, that thing was falling fast. Whatever it was.”

"Right,” Dean said slowly. “Well, thank you for speaking to us. We’ll go check it out, and I promise we won’t mention your name in anything.”

Thanking them, still looking nervous, the tiny little Asian girl scooted out of the booth and disappeared further back into the diner, back to wherever she’d appeared from. Dean finally turned back to Jack, finding him looking a little deflated, but not miserable.

“What do you think?” Dean asked carefully.

“Sounds like we should check out the river,” Jack answered calmly, “and find out what’s going on.”

“I, uh, I’m sorry about this, bud,” Dean said, sliding across the seat to stand up from the booth. “I know you really like Christmas, and Santa, and all that.”

“I do,” Jack said solemnly as they stepped back out into the street. “But a thing doesn’t have to be real to be important, or to mean something.”

Dean looked at Jack, smiling calmly back at him, and the hurt in his chest that he’d been holding for hours finally eased a little. “You’re wiser than I give you credit for sometimes, kid,” he confessed. “Sorry about that. I’m not...not the best at this. The parent thing, I guess, as that’s kinda the role we’ve fallen into here. But I’m trying, y’know?”

Jack was already pulling up a Google map of the town so that they could locate the river. “You’re better at it than you think,” he soothed. “Really. You, and Castiel, and Sam…I’m very happy to be part of your family, Dean. I know we’re not blood, but…”

“But a thing doesn’t have to be real to mean something,” Dean echoed, grinning.

“Exactly,” said Jack.

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

The Rum River was probably pretty in the daytime, but in the encroaching evening, it was just kinda cold and damp. Dean squelched his way along the bank with Sam in relative silence. They’d met up where the river bisected the town of Anoka, then hiked almost a mile further, in a direction consistent with the view from the department store. No way was Dean taking Baby though this snowy, muddy slush. They’d been heading steadily downriver, with Dean and Sam scouring the east bank, and Castiel and Jack taking the west side.

“Did you find anything special about the river when you were researching in the car?” Dean asked quietly as he paused to shake some of the built up gunk from his boots. 

“There’s not a lot of specific lore on it, if that’s what you mean,” Sam said with a shrug. “It looked like old fur traders were the first to all it the Rum River—the Ojibwe called it  _ Misi-zaaga'igani-ziibi. _ ”

“Bless you.”

“It means spiritual river,” Sam retorted, his eye roll somehow audible in the dark. “A little cultural knowledge wouldn’t kill you.”

“Well that’s wonderful,” Dean said sweetly. “But it doesn’t help us find our kamikaze Santa, does it?”

Moving on ahead of Dean in the dim light, Sam muttered something under his breath before saying, “Are you gonna elaborate on what put you in such a shitty mood? Or are we just supposed to deal with it, like old times? Because you’d been getting so much better, Dean.”

_ Ouch. _

Dean spent a few minutes studiously watching the way his flashlight bobbed along the ground in front of his feet, ensuring that he didn’t fall on his ass for the second time in one day. 

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Sam huffed, ahead of him. “But stop taking it out on me, too, then.”

“It’s just… It’s not your business, Sam,” Dean said after a minute, struggling, staring at Sam’s heels. “I’m not trying to be an asshole and blow you off. It’s just really not.”

For a moment there was silence, but something in Dean’s voice must have carried the message home because Sam let it go. “Alright,” he said. “That’s fair. Whatever happened with Cas—and it was clearly Cas, because you were fine before me and Jack went to the store—then just fix it, okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said dully, his chest feeling like an empty cage. “Sure.”

Fix it. Like it was that simple. Like he hadn’t just put himself out there, like that was a thing that people actually did. Like he hadn’t tried to kiss his best friend. And like his best friend hadn’t rejected his advances, like nothing had happened.

But he couldn’t have imagined all of it, could he? Unless that not-date was...exactly that, maybe. Not a date.

Had he wanted it to be? Fuck yes. Even just the idea that he and Castiel might finally—

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed up in front. “Look!” 

Stopping barely inches away from slamming into Sam’s giant back—Goddamnit Sam was like a freaking  _ Ent _ from this close up, he might as well have creaked when he moved—Dean fumbled his flashlight and dropped it in the dirty snow. Picking it back up with a scowl, his hand slippery with mud, Dean turned the beam to where Sam had settled his. 

Around ten feet ahead of them, where the bank met the river, there was a deep tear in the snow. Several feet deep, it was muddy and raw and new, untainted by fresh snowfall and instantly noticeable as it split their path. Dean moved his flashlight along it, following the rip as it descended into the icy water. The river still ran, but thick chunks of ice congregated at its sides, panes of glass-like water creeping out from the sides several feet as the cold tried its best to claim the water. But where their torches landed, the light revealed shattered, upturned splinters of ice, like a broken window suspended in time. Within it, in the center, was a dark, hulking shape. 

“It really is a sleigh,” Dean breathed out, a heavy puff of white air carrying his surprise and confusion across to his brother. “What the fuck?”

“I have no idea,” Sam said, shaking his head. “I thought maybe it was some kind of shifter, or a witch thing...but Santa?”

“Well, we haven’t seen ol’ St Nick himself yet,” Dean cautioned, feeling like he was trying to hang on to some sense of normalcy and sanity. “And even if we do, I’m inclined to think it’s probably just some skinwalker who got really, really into Santa at the shopping mall.”

Dean sensed Sam nod next to him in the dark, hearing his puffy jacket rustle. “Yeah,” Sam said. “Or like… I dunno, a tulpa? Could that happen?”

“Totally,” Dean agreed, his flashlight highlighting the curved rails of the sleigh’s runners as they burst up out of the dark river. They were made of some kind of gleaming metal, and the bed of the sleigh itself—a huge, wooden thing, easily the size of Baby—appeared to be painted red under the light Dean provided. “Lots of people believe in Santa. Tulpa makes sense.” 

“We should call Cas and Jack,” Sam said, still sounding disbelieving. “They gotta see this.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. He was about to add that he wasn’t sure  _ he _ believed this, when there was a distinctive  _ crack _ in the undergrowth behind them.

Both Sam and Dean spun in unison, a practiced machine. Dean’s hand went straight into his jacket, pulling out the angel blade that lived there as a matter of course, holding it with the flashlight pointed along the blade while his other hand went to the back of his jeans, fingers curling around his handgun. 

Sam was similarly positioned, his arm bent at the elbow and holding his flashlight, his other hand resting on it, providing a firm base for his gun. “Who’s there?” Sam barked.

For a moment there was silence, not a bird, not a bug.

Then, he stepped out of the bushes. 

Father-fucking-Christmas.

Six feet tall, probably three feet wide, and looking like he just popped out of a holiday card. Holy fuck.

“Ho ho ho,” the imposter said. 

Some kind of rage overtook Dean—how  _ dare  _ this thing? Whatever it was, whatever kind of shifter, or fae, or beast, how dare it wear his face, and pretend to be him? When there were kids out there,  _ believing?  _ When there were people out there like Jack, who knew the truth...but wanted to believe? Wanted to believe in what Christmas stood for?

“What the hell are you?” Dean hissed out, taking a step forward threateningly.

The creature’s hands went up, defensive, but it didn’t step back. It peered at Dean over the top of half-moon glasses, perched on top of a slightly bulbous nose atop a truly impressive, snow white beard. Dean couldn’t see much more without moving his flashlight, but there was definitely a damn red suit down there, too.

“My name,” the thing boomed, its voice packed full of holly-jolly-Christmas, “is Nicholas.”

“Saint Nick?” Sam scoffed. “Come on, you can do better than that.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Pull the other one, it’s got jingle bells on.”

Jingling bells sounded in the air, like just the words had summoned them. The old-man looking creature smirked slightly, and stepped toward Sam. “If you’ll just let me—”

“Woah now, Kris Kringle,” Dean barked. “Back the fuck up.”

“I just want to—”

A warning shot. Dean squeezed his trigger, blasting up a spray of snow at Santa-a-likey’s feet, the  _ pop _ resounding through the dark of the night.

“Don’t. Shoot. Me,” the guy hissed, sounding much less jolly.

“Stay the fuck away from my brother and I won’t have to,” Dean bit back.

Dean knew that Castiel would have started running the second he heard the gunshot. They probably only had a few minutes until he and Jack would get there, after sprinting back upstream to the nearest bridge. Until then, it was just he and Sam versus...whatever-the-fuck this thing was.

“I heard you talking about tulpas, and shifters, and supernatural beings,” the creature began again. It seemed fearless, stepping forward once more, turning its eyes back to Sam, as if it thought that Sam would be the one to talk over to its side, rather than the shorter, madder guy that was already spraying bullets around.

That was...possibly valid, but whatever, Dean wasn’t playing around. 

“I thought you could be persuaded—” 

“You’re not persuading me of anything, Krampus.” Dean moved forward, swift and sure even on the snowy ground. “Whatever illusion you’re using, whatever you did...did you kill that old woman? Eda Milsom, back in Anoka?”

“I…” Its eyes, which were sparkly blue and bright in a way that reminded Dean uncomfortably of Castiel, darted back and forth between the two brothers. “Yes, I suppose you would say so. It was an accident, one of my reindeer fell ill mid-flight, but I am ultimately responsible for—”

“That’s enough for me,” Dean said, stepping forward again, his gun out. “Now, one last time, chubbs. What. The fuck. Are you?”

“Let me show you,” it said.

The being in front of them, red suited and fluffy-hemmed and wearing a goddamn hat uncomfortably like the one Dean had donned on his date—not-date, damnit!—with Cas, raised its hands. It was unarmed, but that didn’t seem to make any difference, as its palms started to glow white-blue.

Its fatal mistake was taking another step toward Sam.

The next twenty seconds were chaos. Like he’d suddenly dropped into a cartoon—but without the awesome dog this time—Dean’s bullet bounced off the guy’s black-buttoned red jacket. It spun in the air before splitting in a shower of sparks. At the same time, jets of  _ snow _ erupted from the creatures hands, complete with snow storm sound effects and chilling cold. 

“Dean!” Sam’s voice sounded somewhere to Dean’s left, lost in snow and darkness. He sounded panicked, but Dean was occupied by the Santa figure barrelling toward him like a sumo wrestler. 

His gun went off again, twice, but it made no difference—whatever this thing was, bullets weren’t doing the trick. Dean tossed it aside, struggling for a moment between his flashlight and his angel blade...but then the thing was on him, tackling him down, all beard and hat and fuzzy hems and smelling like fucking peppermints.

“Dean!” Sam yelled again, following the fight with his flashlight, trying to give Dean some vision, trying to help. 

A sharp crack connected Dean’s elbow to the creature’s temple. A knee plunged into Dean’s stomach, knocking all the air from his lungs in one go. The handle of the angel blade found the being’s nose. A fist lit up Dean’s cheekbone, sparking pain through his eye socket. 

It took a minute, but Dean managed to get a handful of fuzzy red jacket, pushing down on his legs and hauling himself up so that he was stood over the thrashing,  _ furious _ creature. A sizzling white light begin to burn from the creature's empty palms, and he lifted his hands up toward Dean’s face—

“Dean!” Sam cried out yet again, a warning this time.

Dean’s angel blade flew forward, finding its mark—once, twice, again. Then it lodged, stuck, sandwiched deep to the hilt between ribs.

The light fizzled. 

Looking up at Dean in the light from Sam’s flashlight, the creature’s wide eyes were frozen, amazed. “How...how did you…” With a grotesque burbling sound, blood bubbled from his mouth.

Somewhere behind Dean, the sound of running boots slapping through snow and crashing bushes announced Castiel, and probably Jack, responding to the gunshots.

Dean didn’t turn, his jaw hanging as he looked down at the thing he was kneeling overtop of. His jeans were soaked in snow and mud, clinging to him uncomfortably, and the cold was creeping down the back of his neck as he bent over. The only thing Dean could pay attention to though, in the moment, was the crimson flooding the snow-white beard right in front of him.

Why hadn’t he…changed? Or shrunk down, or transformed, or...or...something? What  _ was _ he?

The creature reached up, slow and unthreatening, and weakly grasped Dean’s shoulder. His head came off the ground, barely an inch, and in a voice drowned with blood, he croaked out, “ _ Artık başka şansın yok. İnanmalısın. _ ”

Slumping back in the snow, that was it; his eyes went glassy as the gushing blood began to slow to a trickle. 

“What…” Dean was shaking, totally unnerved, as the creature's dead hand flopped down from his shoulder. “What was that? What did he say?”

“It was Turkish,” Castiel said solemnly, coming up from behind, his flashlight joining Sam’s to illuminate the macabre scene. “He said, ‘You have no choice now. You must believe.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, it begins!
> 
> Chapter two is coming tomorrow, brought to you by the lovely castielslostwings!
> 
> What do you think Dean should be worrying about more, here: his almost-kiss with his best friend, or the fact he may have accidentally ended _actual_ Santa?
> 
> We love to respond to your comments, so please let us know what you think!
> 
> \- Mal <3


	2. Run, Rudolph, Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santa Claus is coming to town...

Dean’s first mistake was assuming that disposing of _Santa’s_ body would be the end of the weirdest supernatural encounter in history. And it _was_ the weirdest _,_ Dean felt pretty confident of that much, despite the fact that he was relatively sure he’d gone into shock before they’d all even made it back to the car. Driving with _Santa_ in the Impala’s trunk had already been one of the most surreal moments Dean had ever experienced, never mind the part where he and Sam had to lug the guy’s grisly remains down to the river just to set him on fire. It was necessary to get him away from the town, but no less horrifying.

After that, everyone had been subdued. Sam busied himself with scrubbing Santa-blood from the Impala’s trunk and Cas was weirdly mother-hen-like when it came to wrapping Dean in one of those tinfoil-looking blankets they give disaster victims. Where he’d dug that up, God only knew, but with all the melted snow and mud and _blood_ covering his clothing, Dean was in no position to argue. Hell, he _felt_ like a disaster victim, what with the pyre still flickering in the distance and Jack huddled in the backseat in his awful Christmas sweater looking like his childhood home just burned to the ground. 

There was some kind of irony in that thought Dean wasn’t keen on looking too closely at, but it was definitely there. Thankfully, while he and Sam had been going through the motions of burning a body (and what a weird task to be able to do with your eyes closed, especially with your brother), Castiel had gone off with Jack, partly to distract him and partly to locate some warm drinks. Now, as he leaned against the Impala and sipped from the styrofoam cup Castiel placed in his hands, Dean had never been more grateful for familiar comforts.

“I can’t believe I killed Santa,” Dean moaned down into his coffee.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Castiel replied immediately, placing a warm hand in the middle of Dean’s back and making the stupid material clutched around him swish and crinkle. Any other time, Dean would have relished the contact, might have even leaned into it a little just to test the waters. Tonight? Tonight, Dean just wanted to drink his coffee and be miserable. 

_The good thing is,_ he told himself, _it’s just another hunt, and it’s over now._ Even though what he did _was_ completely horrifying, time would pass and the memory would dull and Dean would move forward. That’s how it went, it’s how things _always_ went. Morosely, Dean thought about all the other losses he and Sam have had to get past and then immediately wished he hadn’t. _Charlie. Kevin._ Hell, even Crowley. The list of people and things they’ve lost and failed at saving was as endless as their wins, probably longer. Secretly, in his darkest thoughts, sometimes Dean wondered if the scales just didn’t friggin’ balance. That train of thought had him jolting upright, snapping at Sam to finish cleaning Baby at the bunker and slipping in behind the wheel without so much as a single warning to Cas. 

He regretted it almost immediately, seeing Castiel still standing outside his window with the shitty blanket dangling from one hand and the other hanging in the air like he hadn’t quite registered that Dean wasn’t standing there any longer. _Later,_ Dean told himself, and he meant it. He had _every_ intention of going home, sleeping off his bad mood, and then finding Castiel to— _ugh—talk_ and maybe work some of their shit out, potential chick flick moments and all. 

Best laid plans for the Winchesters, Dean never should have been surprised when things didn’t go his way.

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

_Several Days Later..._

As it turned out, Santa’s death was only the beginning of his troubles, not that Dean had any way of knowing it at the time. Although maybe he should have suspected, because since when was _anything_ in their lives that easy? In Dean’s defense, though, he _did_ have a lot on his mind. Aside from accidentally murdering the source of Christmas Joy himself, there was also this thing with Cas, which Dean could tell Castiel was quickly losing patience with him skirting around. 

It was just that, taking the “ho ho ho” out of the holidays also put a major damper on Dean’s interest in any Christmas-flix and chill. So what if they _almost_ kissed? So what if this thing between him and Cas was nearly ten years in the making, it wasn't like Dean had control of the way the three of them have skidded, barely holding on, from one crisis to the next over the past however many years. And it also wasn't like Dean didn't _want_ to do this thing with Cas, it was more that now the moment had passed and he was stuck on trying to figure out how to get it back. 

That was, if Cas even _wanted_ to get it back. For all of his attempts to corner Dean within the past few days, he hadn’t actually _said_ anything at all. And sure, that was partially because Dean hadn’t given him the chance, but that was only because of the huge _what-the-fuck-ifs_ hanging over his head. Dean had thought their not-date had gone as well as something that technically doesn’t exist could go, and then he’d misread the moment and leaned in…and Cas had pulled back. _Fuck._ If it weren’t for the fact that _Cas_ had asked _him_ to go ice skating at all, Dean would be sure he’d misread things. But there was all that talk about Bobby and Karen and _making memories,_ and all the things Cas had said about Bobby’s soul… Plus, they did have a pretty damn good time. Right up until the brutal murder, anyway.

And if that were _all_ that was going on in his life, well, that would have been more than enough to excuse the way Dean had been holing up in his room and avoiding everyone else in the bunker. Okay, so letting his empties and dirty dishes pile up on ledges and darting through the halls to the showers like a bat out of hell whenever he was so ripe he couldn’t stand being around himself one second longer wasn’t the _most_ mature way to go about things, but it’s not like Cas was banging down his door either. 

Unfortunately for Dean, all that stuff was actually the least of his problems, not that anyone would believe him, even if he _wanted_ to share with the class. The problem was, not twenty-four hours after Dean accidentally sent Santa Claus to take a dirt nap, his body started changing. _Big,_ scary changes and not the good kind, like if he randomly sprouted tentacles or a third eye or something equally awesome. 

The kind of changes that Dean couldn’t even _imagine_ sharing with Jack and Sam or worse, _Cas_. Not now, not after everything. No matter how much he could use Sam’s nerd brain to try and locate a fix, no matter how secretly scared he felt. _Two more days,_ he reassured himself. He’d do his own research for two more days and either he’d find something (preferable), or he’d cave and let Sam in on this nightmare. _Just_ Sam, though. 

In the meantime, Dean just had to stay out of sight.

Which is why he waited until three in the morning to attempt his latest shower-dash and kitchen run, because it was the time of day the three idiots Dean lived with were most likely to be sequestered in their own corners, doing whatever it is they did when they were alone. After a full ten minutes of pacing back and forth and psyching himself up in front of his closed door, Dean finally gathered enough courage to crack it open. With his roomiest sweatshirt pulled snug around him, the strings of the hood tied so tightly all that was left showing were his eyes, Dean was ready to make a mad dash for it. 

A quick poke of his head out the door revealed no one in the hallway, _perfect,_ so Dean stepped back to grab his towel and then bolted, his bare feet skidding on the slick tile floor as he ran. Everything was great until five feet from the bathroom when Cas rounded the corner at the end of the hall and stopped dead in his tracks. With a yelp, Dean slammed headlong into the door, ducking out of the way as it smashed off of the wall and closed again behind him. Just in time, Dean flipped the lock shut right as Cas’ shoes squeaked to a stop on the other side.

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice rang cautiously through the grate at the bottom of the door and Dean winced. 

“Yeah, hey, Cas. What’s up, buddy?” Dean’s forced-casual tone was making even _him_ nauseous, and he wished more than anything he could open the door and yank Cas inside. His traitorous brain was more than happy to supply a flood of mental images depicting what they could do after _that,_ but just as Dean’s overactive imagination _almost_ had him following through, he remembered exactly why he couldn’t, and that didn’t have anything to do with the mixed signals Cas had been sending. 

On the other side of the door, Castiel was more quiet than usual, and Dean _knew_ he thought this whole thing was about him. _Fuck._ “You haven’t been yourself these past few days,” Castiel said finally. “I was hoping that we could talk.” 

“‘Course,” Dean called back, making his way over to the shower and turning it on full blast. With the added soundtrack of running water echoing through the space, Dean had to raise his voice to be heard, and he knew Cas would take the hint. It was a dick move, sure, but what else was Dean supposed to do? He couldn’t exactly let Cas see him like _this._

“Later, alright?” he yelled and then listened. But Castiel didn’t reply and Dean shrugged, assuming he’d gotten fed up and left. It made him a little sad, lying and evading Cas this way when they’d been _so damn close_ to… _whatever_ , but it wasn’t as if Dean had a choice. 

Somewhat reluctantly, Dean tugged his hoodie and sweatpants off before stepping into the shower, grimacing when the sweatshirt got stuck around his shoulders. His feet sloshed in the water at the bottom of the stall and Dean sighed as he pulled the curtain closed, suddenly realizing as he looked down that he couldn’t see them. 

“What the fuck,” he muttered under his breath, turning his attention away from his newly-pudgy middle and to the oversized shaving mirror suction-cupped to the tile wall. 

Even though he knew what to expect by now, the reflection staring back at him still took Dean by surprise. Two days ago, he was a short-haired brunette with sexy, dark stubble and a hot body that had rarely failed to land him any waitress he desired. Now, there was more white in his hair than brown, his facial hair was several inches thick, and he _looked_ like his favorite food was pie. 

Not that the last part of that was a lie, but his bangin’ metabolism, along with hunting and life on the road had always been enough to keep the extra pounds a diet made up mostly of burgers, fries, and high fructose corn syrup should have stacked on long ago. “Good genes,” was always Dean’s excuse. Now he couldn't even get _into_ his jeans. He snorted and wished Cas was around to share that shitty pun with. Cas would like that. 

Turning to the side and slapping the jiggly spare tire that sprouted around his middle seemingly overnight, Dean checked himself out as much as he could in the small mirror. “This is crazy,” he muttered, soaping up his loofah and getting to work.

Part-way into scrubbing himself down, Dean realized with dawning horror that it wasn’t just his _feet_ hidden from view by his belly, but something a _hell_ of a lot more important. Panicked, Dean couldn’t help but reflect on an article he read in _Playboy_ once about how men lose an inch of dick length for every twenty pounds they gain. By Dean’s estimation, he might already be up twice that, and that thought alone was _almost_ enough to send him running to Sam and his nerd books. _Almost._

Instead, Dean grumpily grabbed his razor and attempted to shave his face. It was slow-going with how thick the growth was, but with some patience and determination, Dean ended his fight clean-shaven. His reflection still displeased the fuck out of him, all round-faced and chubby as it were, but at least the grey-flecked goatee he was sporting was gone. 

Cracking a smile, Dean sighed with relief. At least one thing was fixed. Now he’d be able to work on the weight. Back to the gym, he supposed, if it wasn’t something supernatural causing him to pork up. He’d get there.

Except, right as he was about to turn away, it _happened again._ The same damn thing that happened the last time he tried to shave, except _worse._ In front of his eyes, Dean’s beard grew magically right back in, thicker and whiter than before. On top of that, from one blink to the next, the hair on his head turned from grey-flecked to almost completely white and Dean couldn’t help it; he shrieked. 

As if all that wasn’t bad enough, the door to the bathroom suddenly came crashing in, the wood around the lock splintering as if someone kicked it open, which from the sounds of it, they did. “Dean? Are you alright?” 

“Oh, _shit,_ ” Dean groaned miserably, panicking and reaching for his towel on the hook outside the shower. Unfortunately, in his haste to cover up he stepped on the soap and slipped. Shrieking again, Dean did the _worst_ possible thing he could do: he grabbed the shower curtain for stability and pulled. Even as he went tumbling to the floor, Dean had the sense to tuck and roll, managing to wrap the plastic-y sheath around his body and shield himself from view, leaving only his feet sticking out. 

“Dean!” He heard Cas saying, “Dean, what—here, let me—” 

“ _Nope,_ ” Dean replied emphatically from somewhere inside his damp, mildewy cocoon, the still-running showerhead pelting water on top of him relentlessly. The tight space was humid and moist, leaving Dean’s brand-new beard heavy and wet on his face and Dean _hated_ it. The last thing he wanted was for Cas to hate it, too. At least Cas was smart enough to reach over the Dean-empanada and flip the water off, though Dean hoped desperately that would be the last thing he’d insist on doing to “ _help”_. 

“Please get out, Cas,” Dean pleaded, curling his toes against the cold, wet floor in embarrassment. 

With a put-upon sigh, he heard Cas’ dress shoes squeak against the tile, clacking softly as he started to walk away. But before Dean could fully breathe that sigh of relief he started to let out, Castiel changed his mind, because _of course,_ he did. Must be Dean’s lucky friggin’ day. 

“No,” Cas said firmly. “You know what? We are not going to do this. _I_ am not going to let you do this _to us._ ” 

“Cas, this is nice and all, and I can appreciate that you wanna talk, but _please,_ not right—” Dean was cut off abruptly as Castiel apparently grabbed the edge of the shower curtain and yanked, sending Dean tumbling out onto the bathroom floor in a wet, naked, _jiggly_ heap. 

“Great,” he muttered, staring blankly up at the ceiling, everything from his geriatric hair to his pudding belly to his _now smaller than usual_ dick on full display for the guy he was in love with to ogle freely. “Mix in a little rectal surgery and this is my best day ever,” Dean grumbled. 

Cas, to his credit, didn’t freak out, which was more than Dean thought he’d be able to accomplish if their positions had been reversed. Still, the calm silence and measured stare didn’t go as far as Cas probably thought they did to reassuring Dean that he wasn’t completely repulsed. Even if they _did_ manage to eventually get this thing reversed, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if this particular sight still had Cas fleeing in abject terror from the very idea of being with Dean. 

“Ho ho ho?” he said weakly, lifting his head up off of the ground to half-smile in Cas’ general direction. “Uh, towel?” 

Cas tossed him the one on the hook without missing a beat or breaking his curious, squinty-eyed stare. His eyes swept up and down Dean’s body in a way that made him want to die even more than before, which was really saying something. 

“Cas, knock it off,” Dean snapped, wrapping the towel around his waist (as far as it’d go, _damn_ this was humiliating) and stalking off towards his room.

Predictably, Castiel followed. “Dean,” he said urgently, hurrying behind and laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder, warm and enticing. It was a close thing, but Dean knew better than to even consider leaning into it, not looking like Anthony Hopkins’ double (that is, if Odin had followed a kickass moisturizing routine in his thirties). 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel repeated, and Dean came to a still-dripping stop in the middle of the hallway with a resigned sigh. 

“What do you want me to say, Cas? Come on, let me go. I don’t want you to see me like this.” With some trepidation, Dean finally turned around just enough to take in Castiel’s confused expression. 

“Dean, there is something _mystical_ going on here. How long has this been happening? Why didn’t you come to me or Sam? Clearly, this is connected to the death of Saint Nicholas and—” 

“ _Cas,”_ Dean hissed, raising the hand that wasn’t already occupied holding onto his towel. “I don’t _care_. I don’t wanna talk about it. I’m doing research, I’m gonna figure out how to fix it, and in the meantime, I just want to be left alone. Capiche?” 

He turned and started back towards his room, but Castiel wasn’t giving up that easily.

“No,” Castiel growled, stalking after him. “I _don’t_ capiche. You’re being ridiculous. I’m not letting you deal with this alone, I—”

But Dean never got to find out what Castiel was going to say, because when they turned the corner into his room, there was someone— _something—_ already waiting there.

“Holy shit,” Dean yelped, clapping a hand to his chest at the sight of a pointy-eared creature in a sparkly red and gold tunic perched on the end of his bed. 

“Hey,” the thing said brightly around a mouthful of the last slice of pizza Dean had left on his nightstand. “I’m Bernard, Head Elf. I’m here to take you to the North Pole to fulfill your destiny.” 

He said the last part with clearly forced cheer and a hand waving dramatically towards the sky, though his tone was a lot more, _I’d rather be anywhere but here, thanks._

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Dean spat. “Enough is enough.” 

Without really considering the possible consequences, Dean hauled back and punched the merry little food thief across the face, sending him collapsing backward onto Dean’s bed. He was small enough that Dean didn’t expect him to rally, but he did, springing back up like one of those inflatable clowns that bobbled back and forth incessantly when you hit it. Except this thing didn’t just bobble, it attacked, jumping onto Dean’s chest like a spider monkey and sending Dean reeling. 

“Dean!” Castiel called out, though he made no move to jump in and assist.

“Little help here?!” Dean yelled back as he slammed the creature to the ground, cracking the weird little muppet’s head on the cement. He was momentarily waylaid by the sound of jingle bells tinkling on the ends of the dark green hat now sliding off of the thing’s hair. It _was_ kinda cheery, though that thought was wiped from his mind almost immediately when the creepy little dude popped back up and socked him in the stomach. 

With an “ _oof”_ and a subsequent growl, Dean managed to straddle the thing, losing his towel completely as he laid into him hard. Showing no mercy this time, Dean landed punch after punch to the face until the elf-looking thing stopped moving completely, and Dean wasn’t honestly sure if it was breathing or not. The undisturbed blood collecting at the corners of its mouth and below its nostrils would suggest not. 

Chest heaving, Dean sank back on his heels, back aching. Fighting with all this extra weight was no joke. 

And _once again,_ as if this day weren’t bad enough, another person appeared in the doorway, Sam’s familiar voice filling Dean’s room and making him groan with frustration. “Uh… guys? What the hell happened?!” _Great, now Sam’s here,_ Dean thought. “And who the hell is that?”

“It’s an elf, I think,” Dean started at the same time Cas spoke too.

“It’s Dean.” 

Offended, Dean snatched his towel from where it had fallen to the side, covering himself as he stood up again self-consciously. “I’m not _that_ unrecognizable,” he protested, not failing to catch the way Sam’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened. “Oh, come on.” 

Cas just raised a hand and dropped it back to his side with a brief shake of his head. To Sam, he explained, “Dean was embarrassed by these physical changes, though I’ve assured him we would _not_ judge him and that we would get to the bottom of this immediately.”

“You look like _Santa,_ ” Sam burst out gleefully, though he at least had the decency to look chastized when Castiel glared at him. A little. “I’m sorry, I just… you look like _Santa._ ” Dean rolled his eyes while Sam barely stifled his laughter. 

“Glad you think this is funny,” he replied gruffly. “But it ain’t just the freshman fifteen and a little facial hair anymore, now we’ve got…” He trailed off and gestured at the bloody Christmas-themed lump at his feet. “Magical woodland creatures breaking into the bunker without tripping the alarms.” 

The three of them peered down at the unmoving elf, and for the first time, Dean wondered if punching first and asking questions later maybe wasn’t the smartest way to deal with all of this. The elf—if he _was_ an elf, and Dean wasn't completely sold on that—might’ve had some answers, answers he _really_ friggin’ needed right about now.

“If it _is_ an elf,” Castiel said slowly. “Then it is technically an arctic creature.” 

Dean blinked and shifted his gaze to glare at Castiel in exasperation. “Glad we’re focusing on the important things here, sunshine. Real...” He waved his hand around before putting his fingers to his lips in a mock chef’s kiss. 

“I mean, I guess we put him on the pyre with Santa,” Sam suggested doubtfully, but just then, the elf gasped and snorted a little, his bruised right eye twitching in whatever coma-state Dean had put him in. 

“Oh hey,” Dean said brightly. “He’s alive. Score one for our team.” 

“Dean, you beat him unconscious.” 

“And I’m _sorry_ for that, it was a—a, gut reaction, alright? I’m going through a lot right now, cut me some slack.” Sam snorted and Dean shifted the direction of his glare.

Looking between the now-moaning elf on the floor and Dean, Castiel shrugged. “Perhaps we should secure him in the dungeon before he wakes up fully. I must confess, holiday lore and spirits are not my strong suit, knowledge-wise. I have no idea how powerful this creature may be.” 

With a nod, Sam crouched down and scooped up the elf by his armpits while Castiel grabbed the feet. “There are a few books in the library that might help. I set them aside to do some research after the whole—” He shot a wary glance at Dean. “—Santa thing.” 

Dean watched the two of them struggle with the elf’s body from the edge of his room but made no move to help. He figured he’d done enough, he’d better just stay out of this, at least until he had some kind of vague game plan or some pants on, at least. “Don’t say anything to Jack yet,” Dean warned. I’m just gonna…” He motioned towards his closet.

“ _Please,_ ” Sam agreed with a pained expression as he and Cas hauled the elf out into the hallway. “This is more of you than I ever wanted to see.” 

“Whatever,” Dean grunted. 

“You’re making him self-conscious, Sam,” Dean heard Castiel mutter as they staggered out of sight, leaving a big bloody smear on the floor behind them. Dean didn’t catch what, if anything, his brother replied, but it did feel kind of good to know that Cas was on his side and that he wasn’t _completely_ repulsed by Dean’s appearance. Not that Dean was comfortable with himself or anything, far from it. But at least now he didn’t have to hide while they searched for a way to reverse this whole thing. Really, that big reveal _could_ have gone a lot worse.

Glancing in the mirror as he pulled on some sweatpants and his biggest, most stretched-out band tee, Dean grimaced. He just hoped it wouldn’t take too long. It would _suck_ to be stuck this way for Christmas. 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ;) stay tuned tomorrow for the next installment from SOBS!!! it's friggin' hilarious


	3. You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santa's spirit lives on, Baby has to adjust, and Dean is going to have a meltdown in 3...2...1...

Dean's clothes lasted all of two minutes on his body before he realized that the seams were popping every time he inhaled and he could barely move properly, so he quickly tugged them all off and got the towel back around his waist as far as it would go. Standing there naked, with no idea what to do about his current situation, he realized he was back at square one, and he hadn't gotten very far past it. 

He stared at the contents of his closet. 

Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely _nothing._ He had a variety of things _to_ wear, an endless selection of plaid and washed out t-shirts, but there wasn't anything very...roomy. Even if he _could_ squeeze into anything, he'd end up ripping some of his favorite clothes if he had to do any strenuous activity. As his last selection of clothes proved. 

An idea formed in his mind, one he'd never—not even fucking once in his life—considered before. Sam was big. Well, _tall,_ but bigger than Dean. 

Looking down at the towel barely settling around his waist where he held the corners, he realized that he had no choice but to continue to move in his current state. He set his shoulders and swiveled on his heel, stomping out to clear the space between his room and Sam's as quickly as possible. He didn't even glance around Sam's room, just moved to his dresser and went to plundering. 

It had been a long time since they had a war over clothes-sharing. Sam had quickly (and unfortunately) outgrown him and they'd stopped swapping clothes when it reached embarrassing levels. There was only so many times that Dean could put on one of Sam's shirts and nearly get swallowed whole before he decided it was best to keep their wardrobes separate. Dean was currently banking on that past embarrassment to get him through this ordeal. 

Sam, thankfully, hoarded things he didn't necessarily need and could afford to replace, a habit bred from a childhood with little to call their own. Dean had the same ritual; hell, he still had shoes from when he was nineteen, even if his feet wouldn't dream of fitting anymore. This particular trait was a godsend at the moment because Sam still had clothes from when he was his bulkiest size, all muscle and stupidly jacked in a way that was just _weird,_ but it did Dean so many favors right now that he internally took back every tasteless Steroid joke he ever made. 

Dean managed to find a black t-shirt that fit snugly, very tight around the stomach particularly, and a pair of jogging pants that caught on the hair of his legs. He settled the waist of the pants below his bulging stomach, but his shirt continuously rode up to reveal the very stomach he was mentally trying to banish. Grimacing, he snapped the waistband of the jogging pants over his stomach, scowling at the visible impression they gave under the too-tight t-shirt. But shit, at least he had clothes that didn't make him look like a formless blob, and he was no longer imprisoned to shuffle around in a towel that wouldn't even wrap around him anymore. 

Small mercies. 

"Dean?" 

Stiffening and holding his breath like he could go invisible if he stayed immobile, Dean held position in Sam's room for a brief moment before he recalled that he wasn't necessarily supposed to be avoiding Castiel anymore. By the time he'd soothed himself into minutely relaxing, Castiel's head was poking around the corner, eyes squinted in confusion. 

"Cas, I—" 

"Why are you in Sam's room?" Castiel asked, stepping inside the room to study Dean like him being inside his brother's room was the weirdest thing going on at the moment. 

Dean lifted his arms helplessly and let them drop with a loud clap at his sides. "My clothes don't freakin' fit me anymore, Cas." 

"Ah, yes," Castiel replied calmly. "Sam is reading up on the lore now, would you like to join us?" 

The last thing Dean wanted to do at this particular moment was spend any time in the immediate vicinity of Castiel. Which, that feeling was at harsh odds with how he wanted nothing more. He couldn't _believe_ that, after everything, when he finally decided to accept his big, stupid feelings for Castiel...his body _literally_ changed itself to put a halt to whatever progress they could make. And he knew it was something magical — it _had_ to be—but it still felt ironic to think about all the ways he'd managed to keep himself from getting anywhere with Castiel. If it wasn't the world ending, or his own mouth, or his mind being a dick, it was his body, apparently. 

Har—fucking—har. 

Though, Dean _had_ tried to progress things between them, only to fail. He didn't want to obsess on the almost-kiss, especially when his body was betraying him in the worst way possible — seriously, he'd rather go back to a teenage grasp on control and pop helpless boners than this — but it was damn near impossible not to think about whenever Castiel so much as looked at him. They'd almost _kissed,_ and for a heart-stopping moment, it had seemed like Castiel would have welcomed it. Until, of course, that had abruptly been very much not the case. 

But, honestly, that was the least of Dean's problems right now. He wanted to get back to a place that he could brood over the almost-kiss without the sharp reminder that he had a beard in the form of coarse hair itching at his neck. So, he let his shoulders slump and nodded mulishly as Castiel led him out of the room and towards the table Sam had set up a little research station at. 

Sam looked up and his eyes _instantly_ sparked with delight. "You have no idea—" 

"Sam," Dean said warningly. 

"Seriously, dude," Sam began again. 

Castiel tapped a knuckle to the tabletop and narrowed his eyes. "Sam," he rumbled. 

Sam deflated. "Alright, alright. So, get this, that thing was spouting off some things about some kinda fine print about—well, he didn't _say_ it was a curse, but it sounded like one. Anyway, I did some digging, and I think it's actually an elf." 

"Fine, great," Dean grumbled quickly, cutting Castiel off before he could open his mouth to protest. "So, there goes every child's goddamn childhood. Santa's helpful little helpers are scrappy as fuck. What does that have to do with me?" 

"Well, you know the story behind Santa Claus, right? Saint Nicholas, patron saint of children, guy who went around giving away all his money and helping those in need." Sam arched an eyebrow until Castiel and Dean nodded for him to go on. "He was pretty much everyone's favorite guy from what I can tell, and most sources don't really know how he died. _But_ the Men of Letters have a whole variety sectioned off towards—well, basically any and all Holiday lore. At least half are about Halloween, by the way." 

"Sam, get to the point," Dean gritted out, waving a hand in the universal gesture of _get the fuck on with it._

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right, well, there's a reason that the myth continued on for so long, you know. All myths have a bit of truth in them. See, Saint Nick lived on even after his death through people's inherent appreciation for all the things he did while he was alive. As more time went on, that appreciation changed and warped as expectations changed, but people continued to believe in him. The Dutch eventually introduced Saint Nick to America in the late 1800s, and by then, everything he stood for barely matched to what the people were saying about him. It was like he was an entirely different person." 

"Like a game of telephone," Dean mused, absently reaching up to pull on his beard. He lowered his hand when Castiel and Sam stared at him. 

"No," Sam said, snorting quietly. "What I'm telling you is that he _was_ a different person. Saint Nicholas didn't just die peacefully of, like, the plague. No, he was killed by someone, and because of who he was, that person was—well, they were put under a curse." 

Castiel frowned at Sam. "A witch?" 

"Doesn't say, and I have no way of knowing for sure. It's not a bad curse, per se. Pretty clean-cut, actually. Whoever kills Santa Claus is forced to take on the role of Santa Claus, _including_ the things the people expect out of him. Long ago, people expected Saint Nick to be helpful and kind." Sam fixed Dean with a wary look. "These days, they expect him to give gifts, eat cookies, have reindeer, wear—" 

"Yeah, I know who Santa is," Dean snapped, moving over to flop down in the chair beside the table, scowling when it pressed uncomfortably into his widened hips. "So, what you're tellin' me is, I killed _literal_ Santa, so now I'm…" 

Sam offered a weak smile. "Merry Christmas?" he joked awkwardly, his eyes wide. 

Dean took a deep breath, then with serious conviction, he hissed, "Oh, you've _got_ to be fucking kidding me." 

  
  


❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄ 

  
  


"Dean, you can't just—" 

"Cas, I swear on my _life,_ if you do not let me go, I'm going to ho, ho, ho you right through a wall." 

Castiel squinted at him. "If you're attempting to threaten me, you're—" 

"Only way I'm not getting in there is if you kill me. So, what's it gonna be?" Dean raised his eyebrows and spread his hands open. "You ready to take on the mantle of the Holly Jolly Guy in Red?" 

"Dean, it would not be wise to speak with the elf. You're not in the current state to—" 

"Cas, seriously, if you don't—" 

"Fine!" Castiel abruptly stepped forward, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits now, leaning close enough that Dean could feel his beard rustle from the contact of his chin. "Do _not_ harm him. He may be imperative to breaking this curse." 

Dean coughed and leaned back. "Yeah, Cas, shit. No need to get all riled up, jeez." 

Castiel's jaw ticked and he glanced away briefly, taking in a calming breath. Then he looked back at Dean, visibly getting control of himself. "You've been better recently. We all noticed; we all appreciated it. And now—now you're _reverting._ Don't. Please." 

Guilt slammed into Dean as hard as that reindeer probably slammed into Eda. Okay, bad metaphor, but Dean figured it went hand-in-hand with his current predicament. That being, Castiel said _please._ Castiel rarely, if ever, did that. He shouldn't have to, Dean knew, but he'd made a point to say it, to remind Dean how well things had been going. 

Right. Well, as much as Dean would like to stew in all the things that had gone wrong in the past week, he'd made an effort before, and now he had to stick to it. If not for all the good that had come from it, then for the thinly veiled plea in Castiel's blue eyes. 

"S'just been a little hard to wrap my head around, that's all." Dean cleared his throat and averted his eyes. "I'm fine. It's fine. I just wanna talk to the elf." 

Castiel sighed. "Very well." 

With that, Castiel turned and walked away with a smooth flap of his trenchcoat that he probably didn't even realize he did, leaving a faint tangible feeling of disappointment lingering in the spot he vacated. Dean pursed his lips and stared at him for a long moment, wondering vaguely what parallel universe existed where they never went on this case and Castiel actually returned the kiss he offered, pondering if there was any possibility that he could sneak into that world instead. 

Doing his best to shake off his own sour mood, and failing miserably, Dean stalked into the dungeons with a scowl. 

The elf was very awake and very...okay. Dean came to a stuttering halt at the sight of the elf sitting in chains, looking all for the world like no one laid a hand on his pointy face. There should have been bruises or swelling eyes, but the elf looked completely unharmed. 

"Why aren't you—" Dean waved at him in blatant confusion, "—you know, messed up." 

The elf smiled thinly. "The closer to Christmas it gets, the more powerful I am. I tend to bounce back quickly in the latest part of the year." 

"Uh huh. Right, listen, Elf, I'm not really—" 

"Bernard." 

"Right, Bernard, whatever." Dean rolled his eyes as Bernard sighed as if he was already bored. "I'm not really the guy for the job, so I'm gonna need you to tell me how to break this curse." 

Bernard flippantly said, "Can't." 

"What, you can't tell me, or—" 

"You can't break it. Your destiny is to be Santa Claus. This isn't a _job."_

"Okay, well, that doesn't really work out for me, if I'm honest," Dean told him slowly, his teeth clenched, barely hanging on his last thread of calm. Bernard did not look sympathetic. "Alright, you know what, _Bernard,_ fuck you. I'm not Santa and this ain't my destiny. What happens if I don't do this, huh? If I just say no?" 

Bernard tips his head, petite shoulders shrugging carelessly. "As the Head Elf, I highly recommend that you don't. The forces of Christmas don't like it when there's resistance." 

"The f—are you _insane?"_ Dean's eyes bulged as he took in this crazy, aloof _elf._ "What forces of Christmas? What are you _talking_ about?" 

"Things of which I am intimately familiar," Bernard said blandly. "Of which, need I remind you, you are _not._ Best if you just go along with it." 

"Look here, I was a kid once, okay? I—I never got any gifts from Santa. No Christmas miracles. Nothing. You know what I got?" Dean jabbed a finger at Bernard jerkily. "Whatever I could nab off the shelf at a Dollar Store I hadn't been banned from yet. That's what. Tell me, if Santa is real, where the fuck was he every December when my little brother had to open gifts and pretend they didn't pale in comparison to the gifts every single kid he went to school with got? Where was he then, huh?" 

"Perhaps you were on the naughty list," Bernard suggested without an ounce of care. 

Dean scowled. "Maybe I was, but Sammy wasn't." 

"Then there is a small chance that you didn't understand the meaning behind Christmas gifts. In fact, I'd wager a guess that you still don't." Bernard shook his head, like he was explaining something to the biggest idiot alive. "It's fairly simple. Christmas is not about the gifts. You may have wished for them, perhaps this angelic Sammy did as well, but that's not truly what the both of you needed. Think back, did you ever have a terrible Christmas before you lost all hope in the Holiday?" 

Despite his reluctance, Dean found himself considering that in length. Before Sam got old enough to be just as careless about it as Dean, there were certain Christmases where things were...well, they'd been good. They didn't have much in the way of material things, but John never went on drunken rampages, they always had somewhere to sleep, and they never went to bed hungry. The cheer had always been high from that, from the relief of getting to just _be_ for a little while, and it hadn't really mattered what household items Sam had to unwrap as gifts—and even then, he'd giggle and smile wide like it was the best gift he'd ever received. 

Thinking back on it now, Christmas often bred warm memories, especially before they stopped believing in it. Dean swallowed and eyed Bernard the way someone might watch an explosive. 

"That ain't the point," Dean muttered gruffly, glaring when Bernard smirked in triumph. "Point is, I ain't doin' this, forces of Christmas be damned. You can sit there and act like you're gonna force me to do anything, but by the time New Years rolls around, I'm going to be back to normal." 

Bernard did not stop smirking. "Humans," he said in the same tone one might say _idiots, gotta love 'em._ "You're all so quick to believe things can be fixed with the test of time and ignorance. You do know that things won't resolve themselves, right? You actually have to attempt to make that happen." 

Dean snorted and shook his head. "I don't need to listen to you, _Bernard._ Fuck kinda name is that, anyway? No, you know what, you have no room to talk. You're the one locked away in a dungeon in case you forgot, so you know what? Have a holly, jolly prison sentence, you Christmas Gnome." 

"Do I look worried?" Bernard arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Like I said, the forces of Christmas don't like resistance. Frankly, I'm a little worried for _you."_

Dean just scoffed and took a few steps back, waving his hand. "Whatever," he said, then turned on his heel and walked out, slamming the door shut behind him, feeling Bernard's indifference following him out like the cold press of snow. 

  
  


**❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄**

  
  


Dean had to give it to Sam. He really knew how to adapt to the craziest of situations. Lucifer was obsessed with him? Just another Thursday. Gabriel stuck him in a time loop where Dean died every day? Just another Tuesday. (Literally.) Dean became Santa Claus? Very amusing, but yet another day in the life of being a Winchester. 

Sam had quickly made arrangements for Jack to spend a few days with Donna, under the guise that she needed his help shoveling snow. Apparently, Sam hadn't even needed to explain before Donna snatched up to opportunity to borrow Jack for a few days, so Dean figured the shoveling snow thing wasn't exactly a lie. On top of that, Sam had effectively organized all the research he'd managed to collect on the subject of Dean becoming Santa Claus. 

Sometimes, and Dean would _never_ admit this, Sam was a fuckin' saint in his own right. 

Then, of course, there was the dreaded trip into town. Dean severely did not want to go out in public. It was bad enough that he had to walk around, looking like Santa's hillbilly cousin, especially in front of Castiel, who—bless him—didn't really seem to understand much of Dean's discomfort. 

Going into town was _not_ Dean's preferred route to take, but seeing as he had no clothes and they had no clue how to fix this quickly, he was going to need a new wardrobe for a little while. That meant, unfortunately enough, going to the mall. Dean would have been fine with going to a Wal-Mart, much as he hated them, but—as Sam gleefully pointed out—everything there was pretty much Christmas themed at the moment, plus he needed more than just t-shirts and stiff jeans. 

The mall was strategically the best option for his current state. There were multiple shops that catered to the needs of those who weren't slim, and he could get in and get out quicker than he could in a Wal-Mart superstore—where they have thirty thousand registers and only three people to run them at any given time. So, he bucked up and folded away his disdain for the trip, and he went. 

There was a snag before he even left the garage. 

Dean was doing his best not to have a mental breakdown. Given the current noises leaving his mouth as he gazed down at Baby in horror, he doubted he was doing a great job. However, considering his current predicament, he figured he was allowed to lose his collective shit. 

"Dean," Castiel said calmly, his voice perfectly crafted into a soothing rumble that did nothing for Dean's nerves at the moment. 

Dean braced his hand on the driver's side door and leaned down to look at the big gap between the steering wheel and the seat. It was a decent sized gap, one he'd never struggled with before, and yet he could no longer _fit._

"Dean," Sam chimed in, actually looking a little concerned for him. 

Dean moaned pitifully and pressed one hand to the wheel while the other splayed against the seat, measuring the distance. He pulled his hands back and tried to compare his body to the distance between his hands. It couldn't be accurate. There was no way in _hell_ his stomach went out that much farther past his hands. 

Castiel carefully walked over and reached out to grasp Dean's shoulder. "It's okay," he said, even though it most certainly _wasn't._ "Just move the seat." 

"Move the—move…" Dean's voice tapered off weakly and he blinked at that gap, his mind melting with the knowledge that he no longer could slide into it. 

Distantly, in the back of his mind, Dean _knew_ this was stupid. Having a minor—well, admittedly, it was pretty major—meltdown over the fact that he'd grown so much that he couldn't fit in his own car properly was just...ridiculous. Maybe. To other people, probably. But to him? Dean hadn't moved the bench-seat in all the years he'd had this car—not for Sam when he became gangly and had to learn to fold himself into the seat, not for anyone. This seat had been in the same spot for his whole life and that was damn well where it was going to stay. 

Dean snapped up straight, glaring at the space with all the hatred he'd shown to Lucifer and Dick Roman alone. Castiel and Sam sighed in perfect sync, both well aware of what was coming next. 

He was sure it was a comical sight, but no one was laughing at him. As he turned sideways and shoved his body into the car, holding his breath as the wheel dug into his stomach, there was only the sound of him grunting with strain and the creaking of the car as he flailed around. But damn it all to hell, he got in there. Sure, he felt like a busted can of biscuits and he couldn't really move, but he was in there. 

"You can't drive like this, Dean," Castiel said firmly, dipping his head to get eye level with him, attempting to catch his gaze. 

Dean stared straight ahead, blatantly ignoring him. A little winded, he snapped, "Just get in the car." 

"I am _not_ getting in the car if you're driving like that," Sam declared without missing a beat. "You're being ridiculous, man." 

Dean was aware of that, but this was a hill he was willing to die on, which he might actually do because he couldn't really breathe with the wheel restricting his movement, and his head was beginning to hurt with the lack of oxygen. Whatever, not even god himself could change his mind right now. 

Castiel made a sound that vaguely reminded Dean of a hissing cat—if the cat was actually a lion with rocks in its vocal cords—and he stomped off. Dean was fine with that up until Castiel snatched open the passenger door and dipped inside to reach down, grasping the bar to adjust the seat and pulling before Dean could so much as yell to stop him. Not like he could stop him otherwise, seeing as he couldn't move. 

The seat abruptly slid back and all the air Dean had been lacking came in through his mouth with one great big _whoosh._ He instantly pushed it back out and swiveled around to tear Castiel a new one. 

Except, well, Castiel was looking at him with an expression that very clearly _dared_ Dean to comment. It was a look he wore often in the midst of them fighting, but it was no less impactful. All of Dean's arguments dried up in his throat and tumbleweeds skidded across his thoughts as his mind went blank. 

Castiel's lip curled up in the corner in victory for one brief moment before he schooled his expression and slid into the passenger side, settling on the bench beside Dean and stretching his legs out in front of him. Sam gave a mournful sigh like he wished it was him getting to experience that freedom, but he said nothing as he folded himself into the back. 

"Drive," Castiel ordered. 

And so, Dean did. 

  
  


**❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄**

  
  


The drive to the mall started out fairly okay. Castiel and Sam had struck up conversation about things that had nothing to do with their current issues, which was probably for Dean's benefit. He wasn't really listening to them, adrift in his own thoughts, vaguely registering them talking about a book in the Men of Letters library. It was comforting to have their conversation as a low buzz in the background, and for the first time since this horror show began, he found himself relaxing slightly. 

At some point, they stopped talking, and Dean missed the background noise, so he reached out to flip on the radio. An instant mistake. 

— _the treetops glisten and children listen, oh hear sleigh bells in the_ — 

Dean scowled and flipped the channel to a well-known rock station. 

— _making a list, checking it twice; gonna find out who's naughty or_ —

Okay, that was a station he would be boycotting forever. Dean huffed and changed it to one of his presets, one he _knew_ would only be playing a variety of classic rock, no matter what. 

— _make my wish come true, oh all I want for Christmas is you_ —

Dean smacked the radio dial to cut it off, growling low in his throat. He felt ridiculously like he'd been betrayed by his favored stations. He didn't give a fuck _what_ Holiday it was; this was just uncalled for. 

"I liked the last one," Castiel commented. 

Dean tossed him a look. "I bet you did." 

Castiel's expression warmed and turned fond, making Dean falter for a moment. He had to think back on what song it was, then he could feel his cheeks grow hot as he realized what it meant. Castiel was _gazing_ at him, a softness in his eyes that Dean was almost sure he wasn't misreading. 

What did that _mean?_ Dean had to look back at the road, but he quickly glanced back at Castiel to see if he was still wearing that shameless expression. He was. Dean's heart started rioting in his chest, trying to tell him something, but he — he'd made this mistake before, right? Castiel couldn't mean what it seemed like he meant. No way was he saying that all he wanted for Christmas was _Dean._

God, if that was all he wanted, Dean would give it to him in a heartbeat. Against his will, he imagined a scenario in which he splayed out on Castiel's bed, wearing nothing but a fucking bow. Castiel could unwrap him _however_ he liked and Dean would have absolutely no complaints. 

Like a balloon suddenly popping, Dean remembered exactly what he looked like. Even the scenario he'd imagined hadn't been true to what he looked like right now, which told him all he needed to know. Castiel couldn't mean that. If Dean couldn't snag him _before_ his body started impersonating Santa, then there was no way he could now. 

Fumbling for something else—anything else—to do, Dean blew out a deep breath and looked away from Castiel as he slid a cassette tape into the dock. If nothing else, the good ol' classics wouldn't let him down like the radio, and they'd serve as at least a little bit of a distraction. 

Dean pressed play, only to nearly slam on the breaks as a shriek escaped his mouth. 

— _you're a monster, Mr. Grinch! Your heart's an empty hole_ —

That was _not_ Metallica!

"Dean!" Sam shouted, leaning forward with a hand flapping in distress, and Dean's eyes went wide as he caught sight of the car stopped in front of them. 

Dean slammed on the breaks so hard that Baby's wheels screeched and there was a faint smell of burnt rubber lingering when they came to a stop. They were mere inches behind the stupid little Prius in front of them, but he hadn't hit them, so that was perfectly fine. If you ignore the fact that his beloved cassette tapes were playing _Christmas music!_

"What. The. Fuck?!" Dean could feel his grasp on his sanity slip just a bit more. 

"Dean, what the hell was that? You almost hit that car!" Sam burst out, a little shook up himself. "Watch the damn road!" 

"It's—these are my _tapes,_ Sam," Dean explained helplessly, jabbing a hand at the cassette player. "This was supposed to be Metallica!"

There was an uncomfortable silence as the car in front of them started driving again, forcing Dean to press the gas and continue up the road. 

"Change it," Sam suggested warily. 

Dean lifted a hand and cautiously poked the button to change it to the next track, internally _begging_ for it to be literally anything else. 

— _you have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch_ —

"Oh god," Dean whispered, horrified. 

"Okay, just—just calm down." Sam leaned forward to reach up between them and change to the next track himself. "Maybe if I—" 

— _the king of sinful sots! Your heart's a dead tomato, splotched with moldy, purple spots, Mr. Grinch_ —

Dean released a gargled sound and slapped his hand forward frantically to eject the tape. "Oh _hell no!_ The curse is messing with Baby now? I swear to—" 

Though Dean held the tape in his hands, the speakers continued to play the song. 

— _your soul is an appalling dump-heap; overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of deplorable rubbish imaginable, mangled-up in tangled-up knots! You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch_ — 

Whatever control Dean had over himself evaporated like smoke. His tremulous hold on his calm snapped, and he instantly started cursing up a storm. Yelling at the top of his lungs, he started slapping his hand against the entire tape deck, pressing buttons and trying to turn the volume down and releasing a steady stream of insults so loud that his head throbbed with the exertion. He was only seconds from putting his fist through the entire fucking dashboard when Castiel reached out and snagged his wrist, halting him with a grip like a vice. 

"Dean, this is _Baby,"_ Castiel said, his tone ever so slightly scolding. 

Dean deflated instantly, sagging back into the seat and staring unseeingly out the windshield as he continued to drive them to the mall. He felt...empty. And maybe that was dramatic, but there was a numbness claiming his body that spoke volumes. Maybe not right now, maybe in two seconds, he had no timeline for it, _but_ he would eventually lose all of his marbles if this curse didn't get fixed. He wasn't sure he could handle any other changes at this point. 

_You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch_ continued to play on a torturous loop, and Dean kept on driving without saying a goddamn word. Castiel held onto his wrist loosely, though he could have let go by now. 

Dean didn't want him to let go though; it felt like that contact was keeping him tethered to whatever made everything okay. Nothing _was_ okay, but by God, Dean was going to let Castiel hold his wrist in hopes that would make up for it. 

It didn't, but Dean appreciated it all the same. 

  
  


**❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄**

  
  


When they reached the mall, the car thankfully stopped playing that dreadful song as soon as he cut the engine. For a long moment, Dean just exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. And then he opened them, looking around the parking lot wearily.

Dean's least favorite time of the year to shop was Christmas time. 

Every single thing about it was a disgrace to his senses. The decorations were gaudy and gag-worthy, too bright and too flashy and too good at souring his mood. Prices were often inflated just because greedy corporations didn't give a shit about anything but a profit. Everything was so _busy,_ jam-packed with people who were too wrapped up in their own little world to care about much else. And the season promoted the _dumbest_ fucking traditions that he'd ever heard of. Mall Santas asking for donations, parents taking their kids to sit on a stranger's lap and demand presents, adults wearing tacky clothes that often flashed red and green, and Christmas music at every goddamn turn. And the worst of 'em, _Christmas Carolers._ People walking around and singing terrible songs in groups like that makes any damn sense. Life wasn't a fucking musical! 

And tinsel. _So much tinsel._ Dean hated it. 

Okay, so maybe this year he was feeling particularly bitter, but he figured he was allowed. He was, quite literally, turning into Santa Claus. Sue him. 

"It might not be so bad," Sam said with false cheer. 

Just then, a woman with a gaggle of children walked past the car, talking on her phone while waving the kids after her without fully paying attention. One of the little boys came to a screeching halt beside the Impala's driver side door, mouth rounded in a little _'o'_ of surprise as he gaped at Dean. His head barely cleared the window, but what he could see was apparently shocking him. 

An older girl came rushing back to yank him along, muffled words telling the little boy that Santa would never drive a car like that. The little boy let himself be pulled away, but as he went, he lifted a little hand and waved it frantically. 

Dean turned to look over his shoulder at Sam, his face flat as he sarcastically said, "Yeah, it won't be even a little bit bad, Sam." 

Sam winced in sympathy. 

"The faster we finish this, the sooner we can break the curse," Castiel announced, throwing Dean a serious look before lumbering out of the car. 

"If it _can_ be broken," Dean muttered, but he grudgingly followed. 

There were multiple things Dean didn't like about his new body. For one, it wasn't _his._ Sure, he'd had some soft edges and curvy parts, but he'd never had _this much._ He knew it was a little hypocritical to dislike his own body when he'd looked at curvy men and women and been _enticed._ He was just as attracted to them as anyone; size didn't fucking matter in the grand scheme of things, he knew. But this was different. He looked like fucking Santa Claus! There was nothing sexy about Santa, nothing at all, and Dean hadn't felt this insecure about his own body in...well, _ever._

Usually, he would walk beside or in front of Castiel and Sam, his stride quick and confident. Not today. No, he hung back, trying to shrink in on himself behind them, ducking his head and glaring at his own stomach. He had the bizarre desire to wrap his arms around himself. 

That was how Dean got into the mall, trailing after Sam and Castiel, wishing he was invisible or not a cheap Santa Claus knock-off. 

The hustle and bustle of the place was oddly comforting. No one was paying him any mind, too busy dashing from shop to shop to get presents for family members they probably didn't even like. Dean unfurled from himself a bit, scanning the place, eyes halting on the food court in interest. Best thing about the mall, they usually gave out little samples of food to try and tempt people to eat, and Dean was one hundred percent in support of that. 

"Where do you want to start?" Sam asked, looking just as lost as Dean felt. 

There was Christmas music playing overhead and Dean scowled, snatching his gaze from the food court, abruptly losing his appetite. Jesus, things were really bad if he wasn't going to go and get _samples._

"Casual wear," Dean gritted out, whirling around and stomping off. 

Finding clothes to fit when you weren't conventionally thin by societal standards was a real bitch, Dean learned. It was a fucking nightmare. 

Sure, it fit in the stomach, but was epically loose in the shoulders. Patterns? _Plaid?_ Gone, but certainly not fucking forgotten. Good luck finding jeans that fit around his waist but wasn't stupidly long in the legs. Say goodbye to clothes that fit comfortably. Everything he put on was too tight, or too loose, or washed-out, or made him look like a fucking _box._ And he absolutely _refused_ to wear anything red, so there went at least half of his color options. 

And look, Dean wasn't a fashionista by any means, okay? Give him some plaid, jeans that fit his ass snugly, and he was golden. But he was used to endless options to pick up and put down before getting what he inevitably got anyway. Such was the way of anyone who went shopping for clothes. Yet, clothes for bigger guys? Yeah, that was a fuckin' joke, and he could just _imagine_ the horror show it was for bigger women to put an outfit together. Jesus. 

Eventually, he had no choice but to settle with the clothes that made him the least uncomfortable. He left each place dissatisfied, on the knife's edge of going into a full-fledged rant about the injustice of it all. The only article of clothing he had hope for was underwear, but that hope was quickly squashed. 

As Dean was picking out a new underwear, a man with an employee tag reading _Henry_ came walking over with a kind smile. 

"Need any help?" he asked. 

Dean shook his head quickly, throwing a wary look at Castiel and Sam. "No, no, we got it under control. Uh, thank you, though." 

"Looks like you don't, actually." Henry reached out and plucked the pack of underwear from Dean's hand with a shake of his head. "You don't want these." 

"I...don't?" Dean asked, frowning at the underwear in confusion. 

Henry snorted. "Nah, man, these are terrible for chafing," he said easily, throwing Dean an odd look like it was universal knowledge. "Thunder thighs ain't no joke, trust and believe. Here, try that brand. Affordable, but the leg is longer so your thighs won't rub together so much. Bonus, they don't ride up." 

Dean slowly picked up the package of underwear that Henry offered him. "Thunder thighs," he said weakly. 

"Hey, ain't no shame in it," Henry told him, winking and smacking his own thigh pointedly. It jiggled and Henry slapped it again, harder, like he wasn't satisfied until his thigh moved like a wave. "My old lady says there ain't a better seat in the house." 

Sam choked but quickly turned it into a cough, and Dean could feel his lips curling up in the corners. He decided instantly that he liked Henry. 

"Thanks," Dean said sincerely. 

Henry bobbed his head. "No problem, man. Y'all have a good day and Merry Christmas," he chirped before turning and walking off to go help someone else who probably looked as lost as Dean did. 

"Thunder thighs," Dean repeated quietly, looking down, craning his neck to peer past his stomach. Carefully, he reached down and poked his own thigh, dismayed when it jiggled beneath his finger. His thighs had jiggled before, sure—everyone's did, that was just life—but not like _this._

"Dean, forget about it, man," Sam said quickly, sensing that he was spiralling. He took a few steps back and started towards the counter. "Let's just pay for these and go, okay? We still need to get you a suit, remember?" 

Dean looked up and blinked. "Right, yeah." 

Sam turned around and walked off, shaking his head slightly, and Dean was left standing there, pressing his thighs together and wondering how long the sting where the skin met had been there. He'd chafed before, but never there. Castiel abruptly reached out and touched his elbow lightly, making Dean jolt in surprise and look up. Castiel was watching him, warmth in his gaze, lips curled up just a little. 

"Don't worry, Dean," Castiel said calmly, "I'm sure they're the best seat in the Bunker." 

Then Castiel was walking away, a spark of amusement in his gaze, and Dean was left once again questioning everything. He allowed himself one moment to imagine Castiel perched in his lap, Dean's pillowy thighs like a throne, and that was enough of _that,_ thank-you-very-much. 

Dean shook it off and hurried to the counter. 

The last thing they had to get was a suit. After going from shop to shop just to find Dean things to wear casually, rather than being able to go in and get everything he needed in one go, he doubted that getting a suit was going to be very fun. 

He was, in fact, very right about that. 

Dean didn't like suits to begin with. He felt out of place wearing them, even if he often had to put them on. It was just him playing a character, being someone he wasn't, and he called it a monkey suit for that very reason. 

It should’ve gone without saying that Dean was having a terrible time. Trying on suits, though? Fuck, that was just...bullshit. Every one he tried on made him feel short, and swollen, and like he swallowed Danny Davito. The ties sat awkwardly on his stomach. The suit jacket felt heavy on his shoulders. The buttons over his belly kept coming undone when he twisted a certain way. The only way the slacks would even fit right was if the waist was settled on his stomach. Tucking the shirt in felt constricting. The belt looked stupid on his stomach. 

Dean hated every fucking second. The worst part? Castiel and Sam made him come out to model everything to tell him if he looked the part or not. Over and over, they told him no, told him it didn't fit right as if he wasn't very fucking aware, told him that every suit he tried on next would probably work. Not a fucking one managed to look right. 

And then, it hit him. 

After the twelfth suit, Dean came to a screeching halt in front of Castiel and Sam. He looked down at the suit, then very carefully said, "This is the curse." 

"What?" Sam asked warily. 

"The c—the fucking _curse,"_ Dean spat, tossing his hands up. "Think about it. No suit is going to work because Santa Clause only wears one very specific kind of suit!" 

"Dean, perhaps you're being paranoid," Castiel said carefully, frowning at him. 

"I—I'm not being paranoid!" Dean grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shook it at them. "Nothing freakin' _fits._ Nothing looks right, _I_ don't look right. I'm—I'm—" 

Castiel abruptly stood up. "Don't," he cut in sharply, lips tightening in displeasure. "Do _not_ degrade yourself, Dean. We will find one that fits." 

"I'm not degrading myself!" Dean hissed, reaching up to shove a hand into his beard and pull on it fiercely. "This ain't me. Cas, you gotta remember that. I don't—this isn't my body." 

"For right now, it _is,"_ Castiel told him firmly, tilting his chin up. "You will respect it." 

"Yeah, Cas is right," Sam agreed, eyebrows drawing together. "Dude, you wouldn't shit on anyone else for having the same body type. Hell, you never talked shit about Santa before now." 

Dean clenched his jaw. "I'm not getting a suit." 

Sam started to protest, but Castiel simply said, "You don't have to. We can leave." 

Dean immediately whirled around and stomped back into the dressing room, avoiding the mirror as he shoved himself back into the clothes he'd borrowed from Sam. He took a moment before exiting to scratch at his beard in frustration. It wasn't _that_ long, but it was a lot longer than he'd ever worn it before. He desperately missed feeling his own face. 

By the time they were leaving the suit shop empty-handed, Dean was more than ready to go. All he wanted was to go home, crawl into a bottle, and forget this shitty day ever happened. 

Of course, because he was Dean Winchester, king of shit luck, that was not how it went at all. 

Just before they made it outside to freedom, a girl who looked to be a pre-teen marched what could be her toddler twin up to him with a determined expression. Dean was assuming the little boy was her little brother because he leaned back into her and stared up at Dean with wide, awed eyes. The little girl stared at Dean intently. 

"Can I help you?" Dean asked warily. 

The little girl nodded. "Rakeem, tell him what you want," she said. 

The little boy looked up at her and shook his head rapidly. "Kenya, he won't—" 

"My little brother wants you to say your catch phrase," the little girl—Kenya—said with a pointed look, crossing her arms. "You're his hero." 

Dean blinked. "My what now?" 

"Santa," Rakeem said, then froze. "I mean, Mr. Claus, sir. Sorry, mama said I gotta has manners. Anyway, can you say what you say every Christmas?" 

"Oh, great." Dean's heart sunk to the pit of his stomach and he heaved a sigh. "Look, kid, I'm really sorry to tell you this, but I'm not—ow!" 

Kenya retracted her foot from where she'd stomped it on top of Dean's _hard,_ and smiled sweetly. "I'm sorry, what were you saying, _Santa?"_

"Kenya!" Rakeem burst out, aghast. "Oh, mama's gonna _kill_ you!" 

"I'm not Santa Claus," Dean snapped, scowling at them both. He instantly regretted it when Rakeem's little face fell and Kenya's became murderous. Yeah, he was having issues, but that wasn't their fault. They were just a couple of kids. "Look, I don't—" 

"You're right, you _can't_ be Santa," Kenya said harshly, little fists balled up. "Santa'd never be mean as you. My little brother _loves_ Santa, and you couldn't just—" 

"Hey, now," Dean interrupted with a frown. "There ain't no need for all that. I'm just—" 

"Just say it," Rakeem said desperately, tugging on Kenya's arm. "Say it and we'll go." 

"I don't even know what _it_ is!" Dean blurts out, waving his hands around wildly. "I haven't got the faintest clue what you're talking about!" 

"Is there a problem over there?" There was a mall cop carefully picking his way through the crowd of people, looking confused and on high alert. 

Dean took a deep, calming breath and looked to Sam and Castiel for help. They looked just as lost as he felt, and like the traitors they were, they had apparently made the decision to let Dean handle this to avoid Kenya's wrath. Dean seriously wished he could do the same. 

"Just say it!" Kenya shouted, leaning forward with threat glinting in her eyes. 

"Jesus," Dean muttered. "Where is your _mother?"_

"Oh, Kenya, let's just—let's go now. Mama's gonna be so mad that we left the table, and thanks for trying, but you're gonna get us in trouble," Rakeem insisted, tugging harder on her arm. 

Kenya shook her head firmly. "Say it, Santa." 

And that was it. That was about all Dean could take. He scowled and tossed his hands up as he burst out a harsh, "I ain't fuckin' Santa Claus!" 

Kenya hauled off and punched him in the stomach with quick reflexes that, under different circumstances, Dean would appreciate. As it was, he was wheezing and curling in on himself as Sam made a choking sound behind him and Castiel groaned like he was genuinely embarrassed. Before Dean could even catch his breath, a strong hand was wrapping around his arm and jerking him to full height. The mall cop had reached them and was scowling, holding up a pair of handcuffs pointedly. 

"You're right, you're not," Kenya declared with the air of a child who knew she was on the naughty list and gave zero fucks about it. "You're the Grinch! You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch!" 

Dean dropped his head and sighed. 

  
  


❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄ 

  
  


Going to jail was never fun. 

This time, Dean had managed to get off light, thanks to Sam's quick thinking. He'd told the cop that Dean was just drunk, which Dean leaned into so hard that it was a wonder they didn't give him a fucking drug test. Dean _wished_ he was drunk. 

The cop had reprimanded Castiel and Sam for bringing Dean out in public while intoxicated, but he'd agreed to just throw Dean into the drunk tank and let him sleep it off. Sam and Castiel could come pick him up tomorrow, thankfully. The cop had reasoned that it _was_ Christmas, after all. Plus, Rakeem and Kenya's mom had descended on the scene, got the full story, and had apologized, reprimanded her kids, and scolded Dean for cussing all at once. Truly, it was incredibly impressive. 

As Dean had been walked outside in handcuffs, pretending to be very drunk, Castiel and Sam had watched him go. Sam had been laughing like Christmas had come early, while Castiel held all of Dean's bags and shook his head in a fond way that shouldn't have been as sweet as it was. 

By the time Dean was fully processed under a fake alias, still pretending to be drunk, it was dark outside. The officer walked him to the holding cells and clapped him on the shoulder before walking away, letting the door shut with a clang. 

Because his life was just a cosmic joke at this point, the cell was full of other men dressed like—you fucking guessed it—Santa Claus. 

"Hey-oh!" One of the guys threw up his hands, body tipping to the side as he laughed. "Ho, ho, ho, and happy Christmas to us all. Lookie, we got another one, y'all!" 

Dean looked to the ceiling and wondered what he'd done _so_ wrong in this world that landed him here, in this cell with a handful of drunk men dressed like Santa Claus. All wearing that stupid suit and fake beards, swaying and smelling of sweat and alcohol. Dean genuinely hated his life. 

"So, what're you in for?" one of the Santas asked, looking at Dean as he moved to the corner of the cell and slid down to plop his ass on the floor. 

Dean stared at him. "Too much Christmas cheer, I guess," he muttered sarcastically. 

That earned him a round of laughter, and one of the Santas raised a hand and said, "Same here." 

This night could not possibly get any worse. 

Dean should've known better than to think that. It was a fucking _trap._ That kind of thinking almost always guaranteed that things could and _would_ get worse. Case in point. 

"Hey, boys," called the officer from outside the cell, his tone full of amusement, "I got just the thing to brighten y'alls night." 

Just then, a radio crackled, and the next thing Dean knew, multiple Santas were cheering as music drifted from the hallway. The officer laughed, the clicking of his shoes drifted off as he went. All the Santas broke out in song, joining the radio off-key, messing up words, but in very high cheer. 

— _you really are a heel; you're as cuddly as a cactus; you're as charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch!_

Dean's tried valiantly not to fucking cry. As you could guess after the day he had, he failed miserably. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun with this chapter, and everyone of us are having fun with this project. We hope it provides you with some Christmas cheer this year ;) 
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter from the lovely jscribbles. 
> 
> And once again, thank you for reading. Do comment and let us know your thoughts on the fic! We do so enjoy them.


	4. Better Not Shoot, Better Not Try, Better Play Along, I’m Tellin’ You Why...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. LISTEN. L-I-S-T-E-N.
> 
> I know I was supposed to have my chapter up on December 25th. I KNOW. But I was one hour and 12 minutes late. Cut me some slack, I had turkey to eat and mashed potatoes to shove down my gullet and alcohol to drink. Priorities, priorities.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals!

December 22nd. 3:00am.

“ _IT’S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CRIIIIIISTMAAAAAS, DOWWWWN IN THE DUNGEOOOOON—_ ”

Dean leaned over the sink in the bunker, pressing his hands to his ears. It was 3am, he was fucking starved, he felt sick to his stomach, and the stupid _fucking_ garden gnome in the dungeon was _fucking singing Christmas goddamn carols_ loud enough to travel through the vents. He’d been doing it for days now. Sam and Cas said they didn’t hear anything, but Dean was refusing to believe that he was somehow hyper-sensitive and supernaturally perceptive to _Christmas music_ of all things.

“Shut up, shut up, _shut up_ ,” Dean mumbled under his breath, rocking a bit over the sink, willing the stupid elf to drop dead and burst into a bajillion shattered pieces of candy cane or sugar plums or something else sickeningly holly-jolly. Ever since dinner he’d been feeling sick to his stomach, the pie and burgers and three fingers of whiskey settling mighty strangely in his stomach. It was difficult to sleep, his mouth watering, torn between being starved and feeling like puking. His big belly grumbled with hunger, feeling unsatisfied by his regular favourites.

Also, it was probably important to acknowledge, it was becoming increasingly hard to sleep when the _voices_ in his head were growing louder, and the dreams more vivid. In classic Dean style, he hadn’t told anyone shit about the dreams or the voices. He didn’t want them to start thinking he was _insane_. He didn’t want to worry anyone…

But the _voices_. Ugh. They were so loud. So persistent. 

So fucking annoying.

They had started up a few days ago. Dean thought it was the elf downstairs at first, and then he’d figured it was Sam listening to some dumb podcast about salads or quinoa too loudly through his ear phones. Dean had even snapped at Cas to turn down the TV in his room one night when he’d been at his wits’ end, but he had trudged through the doorway only to find Cas reading quietly, eyeing Dean with a narrow gaze of concern.

The dreams were worse. They weren’t necessarily nightmares, per say, but Dean woke up with a start from them each time. He’d wake feeling a rush of anxiety, like he was forgetting to do something, or longed for something he didn’t have any true concept of. The dreams were flashes of a strange, dark complex of buildings, the outsides illuminated with twinkling lights, the red brickwork snaked in snow where the cement grout clung to it. A tall chimney pumped vapour into the sky that was dark, yet streaked with wisps of colour. Cobblestone lanes weaved around the buildings, and Dean was pulled through warm hallways, following the sweet scent of...something…

Other dreams were quicker, more jumpy. Small hands ripped at wrapping paper, and the sound of children laughing and squealing with delight echoed in his ears. Tinsel shimmered in the light of flickering fire, and baubles swung from fresh pine trees, swaying lightly as boots touched down onto stone mantles, the cold air of Christmas night whooshing from a fireplace—

_“OOOOOH, THE WEATHER OUTSIDE IS FRIGHTFUL. BUT THIS DUNGEON IS SOOOOO DELIGHTFUL—”_

“FUCK!” Dean exclaimed in a boom, pushing away from the kitchen counter. He was going to murder the elf. Fuck what Cas said about keeping him alive. The gnome had a death wish.

"Gonna rip your _stupid_ as fuck tiny pointed-ass ears off your head, you little son of a b—"

Castiel's head poked out from his room as Dean stormed past it, grumbling very un-Christmas-like obscenities under his breath. Dean ignored the angel, hoping Cas would just do what Sam had been doing lately—steering clear of Dean's holly jolly rage—and duck back into his room. 

No such luck, of course, as Cas seemed to be on a personal mission to make sure Dean didn't return to his 'old ways'.

"What's the matter, Dean?" Cas asked as he followed, his footsteps practically silent compared to Dean's thundering ones echoing through the quiet bunker. It was quite a surprise that Sam wasn't roused by the noise, but it was probably for the best, as he, too, would scowl at Dean's temper. The fewer people harping on Dean, the happier they'd all be. 

" _What's the matter?_ " Dean parrotted, scoffing as he glanced angrily over his shoulder. "Are you not hearing the fa-la-la-la coming in through the fa-la-la-la-fucking vents?! I'm going to kill this goddamn gnome."

"Dean—"

"Don't _Dean_ me, Castiel!" Dean snapped, his heavy footsteps clanging down the iron steps to the lower floor. He felt exhausted and sweaty. He wasn't prepared for impromptu ass-kicking, nor Castiel's well-meaning but nosy inquisition. "It's butt-fuck AM o'clock, and this goddamn elf on the shelf is about to be the elf on the end of my fucking fist—"

A growl rumbled from Castiel's throat, rolling into his words as he said, "Dean, do not harm that elf. He is valuab—"

Dean all but kicked the door down, and it bounced against the back wall just as Bernard wailed, " _—JINGLE AROUND THE DUNGEOOOON. MIX AND MINGLE WITH THE JINGLE OF CHAAAAINS_ —"

"Okay," Cas muttered from behind Dean. " _Now_ I hear him."

Dean half-turned to glare at Cas. "Yeah, no shit. So much for super-angelic hearing, huh?"

Hardly a delicate flower, Cas narrowed his eyes right back, returning with glare with fervour. "I heard distant singing but was focused on research. Forgive me for not being hyper-sensitive to obnoxious holiday carolling from this _imp—"_

"That's _racist_ ," Bernard snapped at Cas. "You angels were always such prissy, prejudiced winged imbeciles."

" _That's_ racist," Cas growled back. "I caution you to watch your tongue, or I'll let Saint Nick here show you the new meaning of Christmas."

Dean jutted his finger at the elf. "Yeah, you idiot. And let me tell you, the new meaning of Christmas involves a lot of ass-kicking and—" Dean paused, rounding on Cas, scowling and feeling a pang of indignation. "Do not call me Saint Nick, Cas! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Cas had the decency to flush a bit and step back, shrugging. "I, um…"

Dean's hand pressed to his soft chest. "You know I'm all self-conscious and feeling shitty, and you're here calling me Saint _Nick?"_

"It can't be helped, I apologize. From my peripherals, you have such a striking resemblance—"

"Oh my God, dude. I know I act like a dick but I still have _feelings?_ "

Cas rubbed at his forehead, shaking his head. With the other hand, he gestured at the elf, still tied to the chair with chains...that had miraculously been weaved in bunches of holly.

Right. The elf.

Dean turned back towards the pointy-eared pixie-thing and put his hands on his hips, which pinched uncomfortably as he was still growing too big for even his new clothes.

"Listen, elf. You're gonna shut the hell up. I'm gonna rock you around the Christmas tree by your throat if you don't zip it. It's 3am. People tryna sleep around here."

"Not you," Bernard said with a grin, his pointy teeth glittering under the swinging bulb over his head. He tilted his head and the bell on the tip of his had jingled. "You were wide awake, weren't you, Dean?"

Cas' hand curled around Dean's shoulder. "Trouble sleeping, Dean?"

Feeling a spike of irate embarrassment in his stomach, adjacent to the nausea, Dean ground out from between his teeth, "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Bernard asked lightly, raising two bushy brows. "Or are the Forces of Christmas growing stronger within you, Dean?"

If Castiel weren’t in the room, Dean would’ve snatched that stupid hat off that stupid elf’s head and beat him with it. The elf _knew_. It knew about the voices.

“You better start talkin’, Bertrude,” Dean warned.

“It’s Ber _nard_ ,” the elf huffed, rolling his eyes. “Were you trying to say ‘Gertrude’? How is that even _close_?”

To his credit, the elf jumped in his seat when Dean growled and stepped forward, slamming his hands down on the table before him. “That’s enough, you gremlin punk. What’s happening to me? I could deal with the cushion for the pushin’, and I could even deal with bein’ a silver fox for a hot minute—”

Dean decided to ignore the tiny noise of disbelief that Cas let slip.

“—but _voices?”_ Dean barked, snapping his fingers. He felt heat rise in his face. “Voices and visions a-a-and fuckin’ with my appetite? You makin’ me sick on purpose, Dobby?”

Bernard’s jaw dropped. “ _Dobby?”_

“That’s too far, Dean,” Castiel said sternly, stepping up beside him. When Dean opened his mouth to answer, Cas added, “It’s an insult to Dobby’s memory. What’s this that Dean is saying, Bernard?”

“Nonsense, most of the time,” Bernard sighed, but then he settled into his chair, tight curls bouncing around his eyes as he looked from man to angel. “I _told_ you. The forces of Christmas do not look kindly upon resistance. As we draw closer to The Ride, your transformation will solidify—”

Dean glanced down at his soft, round tummy and grumbled, “Poor choice of words.”

“—and the more you resist, the stronger they’ll get in order to pull you to your destiny. The _voices_ you’re hearing?” Bernard asked, his lips curling up at the corners into his shining, rosy cheeks. “Those aren’t conduits of evil as you normally find yourself facing. No, those voices are the wishes of believers. You’re hearing the lists and letters being made across the globe address specifically to _you_. To Santa.”

Dean and Cas stood in silence, staring at the elf.

“Bullshit,” Dean said abruptly, his neck tingling and the hairs on his arms raising as the voices grew louder for a moment now that he was paying attention again. “You’re a liar.”

“I do not lie,” Bernard said sternly, scowling. “I never lie. It goes against the Elvish Yuletide Code of Ethics. No lying, no giving presents out early, and, of course, _no_ candy canes before labour day.”

“Oddly specific,” Castiel muttered out of the corner of his lips to Dean, leaning in closer.

Comforted for a moment by Castiel’s warmth before panic settled in his stomach, Dean ground his teeth and said, “Well, tell the kids to shut their traps! I’m _not_ Santa—”

“I was not singing loudly, Dean,” the elf went on sagely, drumming his nails on the arms of the chair, his chains rattling. “But it seemed like it to you, did it not? Not even the angel was as attuned to my carolling as you were. You’re growing more and more sensitive to the festive spirit as The Ride approaches. Play your role, Dean. Give in before you’re forced to.”

“The only festive spirit I’m sensitive to is well-aged whiskey.”

“Jokes. He’s telling more jokes,” Bernard groaned. He raised a brow at Cas. “Does this ever stop?”

To Dean’s annoyance, Cas actually laughed a little, although the sheepish smile on his lips dropped away when Dean slowly turned towards him, probably looking as murderous as he felt.

“Answer his questions, elf,” Castiel said instead, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Why do I feel sick?” Dean asked, pointing up towards the ceiling. “I can’t fuckin’ eat anything without feeling like I’m gonna toss my cookies.”

Bernard smirked. “Interesting choice of words.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. Listen—” Dean went on, tapping at his fingers. “—the dreams, are they visions? Are—”

And again, if Cas wasn’t there, he would’ve pulled off one of Bernard’s curly-toed shoes and beat the shit outta him with it, because the elf raised his hand to silence Dean.

“It will only get worse,” Bernard said smugly. “The voices, the dreams… They are a call, of sorts. As Saint Nick, you will soon instinctively know the Christmas wishes of all children, and some adults, in this world. Until you don that suit, the things that make you Santa Claus will only drive you mad. The more you fight your fate, the worse you’ll feel. But when you put on the suit, when you accept that The Ride is inevitable, you will find peace in your destiny.”

Dean turned to Castiel, his tummy bumping against Cas’ arm. He pointed at the elf and raised his brows. “Can I kill the elf now?”

Cas’ face softened and he smiled. “No, Dean.”

“Okay, but when?”

“ _Dean._ ”

They turned back to the elf. Dean crossed his arms over his chest, settling them on his stomach and he narrowed his eyes at the magical thorn in his side. 

“You,” Dean said to Bernard with a smirk on his lips, “are shit outta luck. You don’t know me, Bert. I’ve been through Hell, I’ve been through shit your oversized little head couldn’t even begin to understand. Visions and voices? That’s chump change. I can hunker down here and deal with whatever the Spirit of Christmas wants to throw at me until this all blows over. But rest assured, moron, I’m not puttin’ on no Santa suit. I don’t even _own_ a Santa suit, so there.”

The elf was staring at Dean with a distinct lack of twinkle in his eye now. As a matter of fact, under the mop of curly dark brown hair, and a crooked hat, and under the hanging light bulb, he looked menacing, his chin jutting out, his lips pressed together, and the bags under his eyes deep and dark.

“Do not be mistaken, Dean Winchester,” Bernard murmured, his little hands curling in his restraints. “An incursion will come. I will be rescued. You _will_ don that suit, _voluntarily_. And you _will_ ride on Christmas Eve.”

Dean leaned forward, despite Cas’ hand as it came to rest on his bicep. Close to Bernard’s pinched little munchkin face, their breath mingling, their scowls mirror images of each other, Dean whispered, “Then so be it. Let them come. I’ll be here. I’ll be ready.”

***

“An incursion?” Sam asked, his bleary eyes blinking up at Dean, still not seeming awake enough for this. He seemed to wince under the kitchen lights. “Like...to take you away?”

Dean—bent over, hands on his knees—was panic-induced dry-heaving over a bucket held by Cas. With a wheeze, he looked up. “An _incursio_ n! I’m _fucked_. I’m so fucked! A bunch of little elves are gonna bust in here and fuck me up and force me into a Santa suit. I’m two-hundred and sixty pounds, dude, I can’t _run_ from like four hundred gremlins chasin’ me around this bunker. We don’t have enough _ammo_.”

“Calm down, Dean,” Cas said passively, rubbing at Dean’s back. “No need to incite any more stress vomiting.”

Sam wrinkled his nose, rubbing clumsily at his pillow-creased face. “Yeah, dude. It’s gross. It smells like eggnog in here.”

Dean gagged and shook his head rushedly, wiping at his sweaty forehead. “Oh, God, oh, God, shut the fuck up. I-I haven’t drank _any eggnog,_ why the fuck does it smell like—uuggh—”

Sam stood and dragged his bare feet across the tile, his long locks matted on one side, his pyjamas wrinkled. He wrenched open the fridge and groaned as he leaned over to inspect the contents. “I haven’t wanted to say anything, because I know you’re, uh—” Sam glanced up over the fridge door and shared a wince with Cas before he added, “— _delicate_ right now.”

Dean righted himself, shoving the bucket away, and held his churning stomach. _Last time I eat a burger,_ he thought painfully. 

“Delicate?” he repeated, eyes narrowing. “You try gaining like a hundred pounds in a week, and being totally unable to drive your own car, or shave your face, or eat a single thing without wanting to hurl, or try no longer being able to see your own dick over your own...”

Sam dropped the water bottle in his hands and Cas fumbled with the bucket as he moved to set it aside.

Moving to sit down at the kitchen table, Dean got hot quickly, realizing what he said, and he hoped no one would mention the dick thing. Purposefully, he avoided Castiel’s gaze, humiliation settling inside him like it planned on building a house and raising a family there. So much for Dean not wanting Cas to see him naked. Now, Cas probably didn’t want to see him naked either.

Uh, not that he’d wanted to before. There...was no way to confirm that.

Dean was mixing wet dreams with reality again. 

He risked a quick glance at Cas and was relieved to see Cas was suddenly looking very interested in his shoe laces, even sitting down at the opposite end of the kitchen table to lift his foot onto his knee and fiddle with his boots. 

_Ugh,_ Dean thought, his stomach souring worse. First, he’d tried to kiss Cas, and now he had accidentally talked about his dick in front of him. Cas was totally not interested. _The look on his face right now? Dude, get a clue. The angel’s just not that into you._

“Wow,” Sam said awkwardly, flipping the water bottle lid between his fingers, his lips pursed. “That was so much information about you that I really didn’t need to know… But, uh, sorry about your, uh...”

“An _incursion_ ,” Dean powered on, talking over Sam, resting his hand on his stomach as it churned. “Someone is coming to rescue that pip-squeak downstairs, and they’ll take me, too, by the sounds of it. What do we do?”

“We should be safe in the bunker,” Sam said, shrugging, and looking much more awake now that Dean had shocked him into the present with accidental dick conversation. “This place is warded against nearly everything under the sun. Maybe we should just hang tight until this all blows over. December 26th, we can show our faces again.” 

Cas looked up from his shoes, his fingers slowing as they curled the laces into a knot. “Sam may be onto something. If the elves only want you for Christmas, if your purpose is to go on ‘The Ride’, as Bernard coined it, then perhaps if we lay low in the bunker until after Christmas, you may revert back to your original form?”

Dean nodded. “That’s the plan.”

Sam sipped from his water bottle, then set it down on the counter as Dean and Cas stared at each other. The crunching noise as the plastic hit metal made them both turn their gaze on Sam.

“But,” Dean’s little brother said, his face concerned, eyes shadowed but a furrowed brow, “if you lay low and there’s no Santa...I mean, what happens to all the kids waiting for him to come down the chimney? Would we be fucking up...like, a billion Christmases?”

Dean groaned, his head tilting back until he was staring at the ceiling. “Dude, who the fuck cares?”

“Children,” Sam said bluntly.

Cas joined in. “Every single person who wrote a letter to you.”

“Not to me! To _Santa_!”Dean corrected, his head snapping down, his voice a bit shrill. 

Cas and Sam exchanged looks, their brows raising in a twin gesture. When they looked back at him, they both wore the _You kinda are Santa_ look. Dean _hated_ that look.

A bit weaker, with less conviction, Dean said, “I’m not Santa. I...I’m not that guy. I’m Dean. I don’t know squat about Christmas. We never had ‘em growing up, and I’m tryna make one for Jack but I naturally revert to Crotchety Old Fucker mode, so I’m doing a pretty swell job of fucking it up for him, too. I-I’m no good at this shit. You can both stop looking at me like that. Hearing a bunch of kids telling me their wishes, and knowing what people want for Christmas, and having dreams about holiday shit doesn’t make me a good Santa. I...I’m not putting on that suit, okay? Everyone can lose the dream.”

Sam tapped the lid of his water bottle on the counter, and Cas was gazing at Dean with a weird little soft frown on his face. 

“It’s fine, dude,” Sam piped up after a long moment of awkward silence. “We’ll be here to fight ‘em off if they come.”

“Of course,” Cas agreed, nodding. In a low, quiet rumble, he added, “We won’t let them take you. And it’s late. You should try to sleep.”

Dean nodded, unsure of how he was supposed to sleep when Bernard’s face had changed into such ominous darkness, and when he’d delivered such a foreboding message. But he got to his feet anyway and patted Cas on the shoulder, his fingers lingering when Cas looked up and smiled sweetly, his eyes wrinkling at the corners.

“I’ll watch over you,” Castiel murmured, his fingers reaching up to brush Dean’s for the briefest of seconds.

Sam cleared his throat.

“I’ll…” Cas’ eyes darted over to Sam, “...watch over _both_ of you.”

Dean’s hand dropped away. Damn it. Damn his stupid heart for having beat so fast at Cas’ words.

“I, uh,” Sam said awkwardly, scratching at his messy bed-head, “I’m gonna head back to bed. Oh, and I know we were supposed to get Jack from Donna’s tomorrow, but, well, until we figure out this incursion thing, maybe we should leave him there?”

“He’s very much looking forward to Christmas,” Castiel pointed out quietly, half of his face wincing. “He’ll wonder why we’ve left him at Donna’s so close to the 25th. It was only supposed to be for a few days…”

“He’ll understand,” Dean said, walking towards the direction of his room. “We’ll fill him in.”

He’d understand, sure. Dean knew it, Sam knew it, Cas knew it. But would it break his heart a little? To potentially miss Christmas?

“We’ll have a Christmas for him after,” Sam reassured, following Dean into the hallway, their feet padding over the hard, cold flooring. “We’ll figure something out.”

“In the meantime,” Dean sighed, rubbing at his eyes, “let’s hit the hay. We’ll wake up tomorrow and reinforce that basement. Dunno what that elf thinks is gonna happen, but he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

***

Actually, Bernard did go somewhere. He’d known what was going to happen, and he’d been right.

So right.

Dean had no idea why he thought that a few hours of sleep would be afforded to him. He had no idea why any of them had thought that they’d be safe for a few hours. But it almost seemed that minutes after he’d fallen asleep to the soft, precious whispers of children around the globe telling him about their Christmas wishes, he’d been abruptly and rudely woken up by a candy cane smashed over his head.

A big, actual-cane sized candy cane that seemed to weigh a hundred pounds and hurt like a fuckin’ bitch to be smacked over the head with. 

“OW, FUCK!” Dean exclaimed, reaching up to grasp at his head where he’d been hit, flailing under his sheets as shards of candy cane exploded over him, raining down onto the sheets and into his hair. Kicking away the duvet, Dean scrambled up towards the head of his bed, hands fumbling for the light and his gun under the pillow.

The light clicked on just in time for Bernard to swing Dean’s gun idly in the air, the trigger looped around his finger, his legs crossed over the edge of the mattress, his gaze lofty as he stared at the hand gun. Beside him, standing nearly four feet taller than Dean’s dresser, was an elf that was so swollen in muscle that Dean thought it looked like it’d eaten all the other elves.

With a gulp, Dean stared up at him, blinking away stars that still swung in his vision.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Bernard said lazily. “Goodie.”

The giant-as-fuck elf shifted on the spot, appearing to reach for another aggressive-looking candy cane tucked in its brown leather belt, but Bernard held up his hand to stop it. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Dean rasped, his voice ruined from sleep. Apparently he’d been out of it longer than he’d thought. Or maybe he had a candy concussion. 

Bernard’s smile spread across his face and he bobbed his foot in the air, the bell at the tip of his shoe jingling. He raised a long finger and gestured to his friend. “Ah, that’s right. You haven’t met Tiny yet. He’s come to escort you to the North Pole. The lads dropped by to rescue me and were kind enough to have Tiny tag along. Glad he did, because they had quite aggressive plans on how to get you to succumb to your destiny. But with Tiny here, we can simply...carry you out! Physical means are much preferable to the alternative.”

The blasted stars gone from his vision, Dean slid off the other side of the bed, eyeing the mean-looking elf that had no business calling himself Tiny. He looked more like an ogre than an elf, taking up most of that side of the room. The stark contrast between him and Bernard was almost laughable. If it wasn’t for the ill-fitted elf get-up stretched over his muscles, complete with an itty bitty green velvet hat flopping off its ugly, lumpy head, and the bell jingling near his beady eyes when he moved, Dean would have no idea that thing was an elf.

“I-I’m not going anywhere,” Dean croaked, feet stumbling backwards, his ass hitting his dresser sooner than planned. 

“Wrong,” Bernard chuckled, hopping to his feet. “You’ll be at the North Pole and in that Santa suit by midnight. Guaranteed.”

 _Yeah-fucking-right._ “How the hell did you get in here? How the fuck did you get out of the dungeon, we locked you up tight—”

“Magic, idiot,” Bernard snapped, seeming to lose his patience. “I told you; I get stronger as Christmas approaches, we all do. Now prepare yourself to leave, or Tiny will make quick and swift work of it—AHHH!”

Bernard managed to duck just in time. Dean swept his sawed-off from the top of his dresser, and dove out of the way as Dean tugged on the trigger, blasting poor Tiny right in the chest. 

After his ears stopped ringing and his eyes stopped watering, Dean realized that—to his surprise—Tiny was squealing. High-pitched noises were leaving his monstrous body as he was thrown back into the wall, his chest blown open. 

Dean groaned, rubbing at his ears, wondering if he’d finally fucked up his hearing for good.

“YOU SHOT TINY!” Bernard roared, jumping to his feet, his hat flying off his head as he turned to Dean, then to Tiny, then back to Dean. His typically beady eyes were wide like saucers. “You’ll _pay_ for this, Winchester! I thought we’d do this the easy way, I thought we’d be merciful, but if you’re going to reject your destiny, refuse to cooperate, and _shoot my elves_ , then I have no choice! I wanted to _avoid_ involving civilians, but you know what—” 

Dean raised the gun again and his lip curled, glaring at Bernard over the barrel. “Get the fuck out of my bunker before I kill you, too. I’m not playin’ any more, imp. JESUS CHRI—”

The drawers behind Dean slammed shut as he jumped back into them, shocked when Tiny mewed and lifted his large head, blinking bearily. 

“Oh, fuck, it’s alive,” Dean breathed.

Tiny rubbed at his chest, which had mended itself at some point in the last minute, and he made a small noise of disappointment, shaking his head at Dean.

Bernard was trembling with anger still, pausing only to pat Tiny on the arm. Then, turning back to Dean, he snarled, “We’re not playing anymore either, Dean.”

“Wha—”

“Tiny,” Bernard commanded, standing up straight, his sharp chin pointed in the air, “grab the angel and put him with the brother. Time is running out; perhaps we show Dean how true that is.”

_Grab the angel._

_The angel_.

“Cas,” was all Dean had time to breath before Bernard clicked his fingers and disappeared both himself and Tiny in a puff of glitter that rained down over Dean’s bed and floor. 

The second they were gone, Dean pushed off his bed and ran, bursting through the door of his room and sliding into the hallway. Barefoot, he tore through the hallways, calling out to Cas and Sam, his voice nearly hoarse by the time he got to the war room, where Cas normally stayed doing research and kept an eye on the door during the night.

“Cas, please! Answer me back, you feathery idiot. Where are y—”

Dean caught himself on the frame of the doorway into the war room before he could go catapulting down the stairs, the momentum of his stop nearly ripping his gun from his hand.

In the war room, crowding the map table and filling up the stairwell up to the exit, were probably thirty elves, all donned in red and green velvet and golden jingling bells. When he appeared, they all turned towards him. Near the bottom of the steps were Bernard and Tiny. Tiny was still rubbing at his chest, looking too fucking sad for a nearly nine-foot-tall Christmas abomination, and Bernard was smirking. 

To their left were Sam and Cas, bound and gagged in silver and purple tinsel, their mouths stuffed with it, their hands and ankles restrained by it. Sam looked panicked, coughing around the twinkly fluff, while Cas was still as a statue, pissed-off, and looking like he was ready to snap some necks. 

“Let them go,” Dean demanded, pointing at his brother and his angel. “They’re not involved in this. They—”

“Oh, hush!” Bernard barked, snapping his fingers. They sparkled a bit, indicating that the elf was too annoyed to control even his own magic. “They are hardly innocent. They’ve aided your aversion to your destiny, they’re perfectly appropriate leverage for ransom, and...and the one in the trenchcoat tried to bite Tiny, so they’re as good as involved now.”

Cas smirked around the tinsel, seemingly proud of himself for using the offensive strategy of a jack russell terrier.

Tiny looked sadder, bowing his head and rubbing at his wrist.

Dean raised his gun and pointed it right at Bernard, his eyes narrowing. “Look, I’m not scared of your army of lawn gnomes—”

The horde of elves all gasped and broke into murmurs, showering Dean with mixed looks of shock and disgust. A small one in a sugar-plum dress by Dean’s feet burst into tears, turning away to sob into the arms of a bearded elf who glared daggers.

Bernard shrugged, raising his arms to his side, exasperated. “I _told_ you it was racist.”

Dean glanced down quickly at the crying one, murmuring, “Uh, sorry.” Then he jerked his gun at Bernard again and commanded, “I said let ‘em go. Your beef is with me.”

Bernard opened his arms wide and exclaimed, “Then come peacefully. Put on the suit. Let us show you how to pick up the reins, how to fulfill your destiny. Say yes.”

_Say yes._

Like with Michael. And that had turned out _so_ swimmingly.

Dean stepped back, his teeth gritted and bared. “No.”

There was a flurry of movement. The crowd of elves hissed and shook their fists at him, while Bernard’s hands dropped to his side in frustration, balled into fists. He hissed something in a language Dean didn’t recognize, and then Sam cried out, muffled, when a tall elf behind him grabbed him by the hair and shoved him onto his stomach. Beside him, an elf grabbed Cas by the shoulder, and crushed their knee into his stomach, sending Cas folding forward, a hitched groan rumbling behind a mouthful of tinsel.

“STOP!” Dean bellowed, surging forward, though he was stopped as Tiny stepped forward and growled, a tiny, high pitched noise that would’ve made Dean cackle in a normal situation.

“I _told_ you I’d’ve preferred if you’d just let Tiny physically escort you, but the truth is, Dean, the suit can’t be put on involuntarily, so you’ve forced my hand. We’ll have to do this the hard way and involve some civilians.” Bernard pointed a long, knobby finger at Dean and he hissed, “If you want your friends returned to you alive, you’ll come to the North Pole and you’ll don that suit before midnight tomorrow. _Or_ they’re _dead_.”

Sam began yelling something behind his gag, and even Cas looked a bit panicked—understandably so, as these elves had clearly been strong enough to overpower him. Dean tried to dive for them, but just as his fingers made contact with Sam’s shoulder and the rough stubble of Castiel’s jawline, he felt dozens of tiny hands pushing him away and—

Dean crashed to the floor, rolling onto his back and yelling as he was showered in thirty-elves worth of glitter. His gun slid across the floor and hit the table leg with a dull _thunk_.

When he could open his eyes, the entire room was sparkling in glitter, but there wasn’t a soul in the place. 

No Sam.

 _No_ Cas.

Within his chest, Dean’s heart began to pound a mile a minute. In a panic, he scrambled to his feet, his hands and heels sliding over sharp, thick glitter. Once he managed to grab hold of the edge of the war table, he hauled himself up and grasped the wood in his hands, his fingers trembling.

Atop the table, in the center was a snow globe. Inside was a lovely complex of red bricked buildings surrounded by tall, majestic pine trees. Snow seemed to fall unendingly, clearly powered by magic. Dean reached forward and picked up the globe, staring into it through wide eyes.

He knew what it was. He was staring at the North Pole. He’d seen enough bad Christmas movies on shitty motel TVs to know this trope.

Slowly, he turned the snow globe in his hands and read the inscription on the bottom, carved into the rich mahogany wood in gold cursive.

_When you’re ready to come get them and accept your role, you’ll know what to do._

_Otherwise, the ones most important to you will die at midnight._

_Merry Christmas!_

Dean nearly threw the globe across the room, but where it sat heavy in his palm, his skin tingled. Unnerved, he set it down and spun on his heel, breaking into a run. 

Trudging into his room, Dean crawled over the bed and found his phone. With trembling fingers, he unlocked his phone and dialed Donna’s number.

Those fucking goblins had taken Sam and Cas. The ones most important to him. But they hadn’t mentioned Jack. If they’d touched a hair on Jack’s head, Dean would rampage. Instead of white and red candy cane swirl, he’d paint the North Pole entirely in red.

“Hiya, Dean!” Donna exclaimed, answering Dean’s video call, her grin big on her face, her dimples sinking into rosy cheeks. She was wearing makeup, which was weird, and big dangly earrings that were shaped like christmas tree lights.

“Donna,” Dean greeted gruffly. “Where’s Jack? Is he okay? Is he nearby? Is he—”

Donna appeared to be walking through her house, her hair flapping around her shoulders. She snorted, “Whoa, whoa. Hold yer horses, Dean! Jack is _fine_.”

“D-D’you have eyes on him?” Dean asked, feeling a little frantic. “Can you get him?”

Completely ignoring him, Donna broke into hearty giggles. “Sorry, there, Dean. But, ah, ya just look so funny. Look at your _beard_! Don’t put no coal in my stockings, Dean—haaah!”

Dean loved Donna. He loved her like a dorky younger sister he never knew he wanted, but in this moment, he wanted to throw the phone across the room.

“Donna,” Dean said through his teeth. “An army of elves just showed up and kidnapped Sam and Cas. Can you _please_ focus and for fuck’s sake please just let me see Ja—”

“HI, DEAN!” Jack exclaimed, waving over Donna’s shoulder as she elevated the phone, fitting them both into the frame. His hand flapped frantically and he had a huge grin on his face, illuminated by flashing green and red lights weaved into his big red christmas sweater. Immediately, Dean knew Jack had consumed enough sugar to replace any grace he’d lost. Even over the pixely video call, Dean could tell he was basically vibrating, his eyes wide.

Dean scowled. “Donna, what did we say about sugar?”

Donna waved her hand and giggled, “Oh, Dean. Loosen’ up, it’s Christmas. My mom sent me a basket of goodies and well, Jack and I just tore right through ‘em, didn’t we? Candy canes, and salted caramels, and white hot chocolate mix. Jack’s real fond of the salt water toffee too, huh! And—wait...Sam and your boyfriend got kidnapped?!”

Dean felt his face get hot under his beard. “He’s not my boyf—”

There was a kerfuffle, and then Jack’s face took up the entire screen, his wide eyes shining in concern. “Castiel is in danger? Kidnapped? Did you say _kidnapped_? Sam, too?”

Dean raised a hand and said gently, feeling paternal all of a sudden. “Relax, kid. I’m gonna go save them. I got until midnight and that’s plenty of time. I just...wanted to make sure you were okay. I was worried they’d gone after you, too. But I’m glad to see you’re good. Now, put Donna back on.”

“Please, Dean,” Jack begged, shaking his head, sandy fringe falling onto his forehead. “Please, let me help. I can come too, I—”

“No,” Dean replied firmly—maybe a bit too firmly. “No. You stay with Donna—”

“I can still hear ya, Dean!” Donna said, her head poking over Jack’s shoulder, giving Dean a clear view of the flashing reindeer ears she wore in her wavy hair. “Doncha worry. I’ll keep Jack here safe. Jodes will send me those wards ya boys sent her, and I’ll get my cabin secure.”

“Wards don’t help against elves,” Dean growled, running his free hand through his hair, resting his back against the headboard. “They didn’t help us here, at least. Anyway, for now they have Sam and Cas, and that seems to be enough for them. Gotta admit, it’s ransom that’s working. I’m gonna have to haul my fat ass to the North Pole to save their asses—”

“OH BOY!” Jack exclaimed, the phone shaking, making him and Donna nothing but pixely blurs for a moment. “The North Pole?! Oh, Dean! _Please, can I come!?_ Please, I’ll be good, I’ll listen to everything you tell me to d—”

“Jack, put Donna on the phone, damn it!” Dean snapped, losing his cool. It was un-Santa of him but—

_Dear Santa,_

_I’ve made lots of mistakes this year. I do admit to fault in most of them. But I’ve learned quite a bit in my two years of life, and I believe I can do much better. I’ve been watching movies, and what I’ve come to realise is that Christmas is a time for love, and happiness, and forgiveness. And candy._

_I understand humans have an enormous capacity for forgiveness—my fathers, all three, taught me that. I’m unsure if you classify as human, but the pictures of you sure make me think so. Anyway, I really hope you can forgive me for my mistakes._

_I just want to be good. All I ever try to be is good._

_Sam said that it’s common practice for children to write to you with lists of presents, but I don’t have a list. Well, not an itemized one, at least (though I wouldn’t mind a hat with elf ears on them, or boots just like Sam’s, or a leather jacket like the one in Dean’s trunk that he doesn't wear because it doesn’t fit him any more. You know, never mind. Perhaps when he’s in a good mood, I’ll ask to borrow it. Never keep it, of course, but maybe I can wear it in the spring. Just once, of course. I wouldn’t want to make it dirty, Dean would be upset. Although it already has a few cigarette burns and oil stains on the sleeves, but I think that’s what he means by it ‘having charm’)._

_What I’d really love for Christmas is for Castiel to be happy. Sam and Dean are not angels, they don’t possess what Castiel and I possess, so they can’t see the wilt of magic around him. Well, what I possessed—I’m basically entirely human now, as well. But I could sense, before, a sadness to Castiel. I think he’s lonely, but he never says so. He says he has us, and he says he loves me very much, and that he has all that he wants. But I think perhaps he isn’t being entirely truthful._

_Anyway, if you could just give him whatever would make him happy, that would be the best Christmas. It feels unjust, how his smile rarely meets his eyes._

_That being said, I haven’t had many Christmases, so what do I know? Maybe rollerblades would be okay, too. The ones with lights on the wheels._

_Thank you._

_Jack…_

“DEAN!?” 

“Deaaaan. Heeeeelllo?”

Dean’s eyes snapped open and he lifted his hands away from his ears, panting hard. 

“What the fuck?” he breathed, realizing he’d dropped the phone onto the bed. Donna and Jack were yelling at him, but he could hardly hear them, like their voices were coming to him from underwater.

Snapping out of it, Dean shook his head and reached down for the phone. Clearer now, their voices almost seemed too loud.

“Are you okay!?” Donna asked, her face right up against the screen. “Do ya need an ambulance?! Are ya havin’ a stroke? Oh, God, how do I even get EMTs down into the fudgin’ bunker—”

“Donna, I-I’m okay. Just...had a moment.”

Jack’s face joined Donna’s and he began talking a mile a minute, his tone desperate. “Dean, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I did, ‘cause as soon as I started talking, you went all weird and screwy—” 

_When did he learn the word ‘screwy’?_

“—I-I don’t know what I did, but Dean I’m _so sorry—_ ”

“Quit apologizing,” Dean grumbled, rubbing at his temple where his head ached suddenly. At the back of his mind, he could still hear whispers. “It’s just a weird Santa thing. One more cherry on top of this gross cake. Y-You didn’t do anything wrong, kid. You’re good. You’re fine. A-Anyway,” he blinked hard and tried to ignore the voices, “Donna, I’m gonna head out to get Cas and Sam back. Wards don’t work against elves, but shotguns do. Kinda… Or at least, they slow ‘em down and buy you time to haul ass outta there.”

“Shotguns,” Donna said with a sharp nod. “Gotcha. I got four.”

“Four is good. Four is the best number of shot guns. Give one to Jack, teach him how to use it.”

Jack was biting at his lip. “Dean, I can help…”

“Kid,” Dean interrupted, trying to force a smile onto his face, although now he was growing more panicked the longer he left his brother and Cas with those gremlins. “Listen, I appreciate your offer, but you can’t open all the presents we gotcha if you’re dead, okay? Just stay with Donna. Protect each other.”

The two year old in Jack shone behind his eyes. “Presents? Oh! Um, sure. I’ll stay here. I’ll protect Donna.”

Behind him, Donna glanced at Jack and grinned, winking at Dean. 

“My hero,” Donna sighed, patting Jack on the shoulder. With a nod towards the screen, she declared, “We’re good here, Dean. Go save Sam and your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my—”

 _Click_.

“Damn it,” Dean grumbled at his phone. 

His heart doing weird somersaults and squeezes as he recalled Jack’s letter to Santa, _to him_ —No! To _Santa_ —Dean tried to ignore the feeling. He didn’t have time for sentimental reminicing or to think about how Jack saw Castiel’s aura fucking _wilting_. The idea that Cas was lonely and sad inside was _definitely_ not eating Dean alive as he trudged around his room, shoving his arms into a flannel shirt and legs into a new pair of jeans. He didn’t even notice the fucking flannel was red—as he’d been so careful to avoid—until he was standing in front of the fucking globe and happened to notice his reflection.

“Ho-ho-holy fuck,” Dean hissed at his reflection. He’d never looked _more_ like Santa than he did now. Part of him wanted to turn his ass around and go change shirts, but he needed to hurry and to focus on real priorities. Who even knew how long it would take him to get to the North-goddamn-Pole. Would he have to fly? Did he have to find a passport with an identity that he hadn’t fucked up yet? Did he have to pack a bag? How the hell would he get like _five_ shotguns through the TSA agents?

In the war room, gazing into the snow globe, not even realizing he was holding it in his two palms until his skin tingled and the glass warmed unnaturally, Dean concluded that he didn’t have to sneak any firearms through airport security at all.

Bertrude the Christmas leprechaun was right. ( _Idiot_.) Dean knew how to get to the damn North Pole.

Exhaling through his nose, Dean stared at the globe, his eyes surveying the buildings, and paying close attention to the pathways through the snow, curling through the center square, around the large flashing tree in the middle with the twinkling lights and glowing star on its point. He stared at the trees and watched the candy cane chimneys swirl atop each roof…

Dean shut his eyes and inhaled the scent of the bunker—of old paper from the library, and the clean, sterile smell of the kitchen because Sam cleaned it religiously, and the lemon drop candies that rested in a bowl in the center of the map table (a new Christmas addition, thanks to Cas, who knew Jack popped those treats like pills, and that somehow found their way into Dean’s pockets by the handful…)

Dean exhaled, his heart warmed by home. Home. His home…

Dean inhaled again and opened his eyes, inhaling the cool scent of winter, of pine, chimney smoke, and cookies. His stomach rumbled as he looked around. Heavy, thick flakes of snow came down hard on his face and shoulders, sticking to his clothing and leaving a chill in his bones. Dean tilted his head up, staring at the sky, for a moment forgetting about the direness of his situation, and found himself a bit in awe as the northern lights flickered and swirled through the sky in shades of red and green. They almost looked like silk, rippling over the night, with stars twinkling like crystals through them. 

“Pretty,” he breathed without realising it, then he cleared his throat and added gruffly, “I guess.”

Refocusing on his task, Dean reached behind him and tugged his handgun from the back of his jeans, clicking off the safety and poising the gun between his palms, muzzle pointed to the ground. 

However he’d ended up here—he’d just inherently known how to materialize in this place, which completely freaked him out—he’d managed to land behind the factory, a large red-bricked building on the outskirts of Santa’s compound. How he knew that it was Santa’s factory? Dean didn’t question it too much, absolutely hating the potential answer, because he was _not_ Santa.

His boots crunching through the snow, Dean maneuvered around the buildings, eyes darting around in attempts to avoid running into any elves. Luckily, the grounds seemed quiet tonight. Oddly quiet, but he wasn’t gonna look a gift reindeer in the mouth, and carried on moving sneakily around corners. He passed barracks, and the mess hall, and ducked past the windows of the engineering lab, as well as the lounge for elves; a big glass building with fluffy armchairs and foosball tables in front of a roaring fireplace.

He crept behind the buildings and ducked into the garage, noticing the sleigh that'd ended up in the Rum River after that grandma got squished a few weeks back. Apparently it’d been retrieved, because a couple elves were working away at it, their pointed ears poking out from either side of welding masks, the tips of their curly hair singed by sparks. Looking to avoid any interaction with them, Dean detoured through the stables, knowing that Santa’s residence was just on the other side, and if this _weird_ intuition he had was anything to trust in any capacity, then he knew he’d pretty much looked through every window except for that one in search of his friends.

The stable smelled like, well, a stable. Dean wrinkled his nose, and after ensuring there weren’t any elves lurking around brushing the reindeer, he relaxed his defensive stance and made quick strides through the building, his feet crunching over hay and crumbles of ice. He’d almost made it out without any distractions when he noticed one stable was open and empty, without a reindeer in it to glare at him like the others…

The stable was lit with candles that flickered against the old wood. Pictures of an ugly, old reindeer were tacked to the walls, and on the floor were flower bouquets and bundles of carrots. Dean glanced up at the sign above the door and read, “Donner.”

Dean glanced back down at the picture of the dead reindeer and pointed at it, shrugging. “Donner the goner, am I right? Next time don’t fly like an idiot and kill someone’s little ol’ granny, y’know? Might win you some more sympathy from me.”

The reindeer in the picture stared at him flatly with an unimpressed stare that said, ‘say that to my face, old man’. 

Grasping his gun again, Dean exited the other end of the stables and saw his final destination, the one building he’d subconsciously been working his way towards. It seemed to call to him almost… That _had_ to be where they were keeping Cas and Sam.

Somehow suddenly sure he wouldn’t be stopped by anyone or anything, Dean crossed the path between the buildings, his gun swung down at his side, his gait confident. 

Intuition lead him through the side door into a beautiful old sitting room. Fluffy couches looked cozy as they were covered in fuzzy blankets and puffy cushions, and were lit by the hearty flame roaring on a hearth. Trudging through the living room, trailing wet, snowy footprints behind him, Dean followed the gut feeling he had. It led him through familiar corridors, and he ended up climbing a flight of stairs and standing at the doorway of his bedroom.

Fuck, no. _Santa’s_ bedroom. 

Shaking his head, growling in frustration at the intense recognition he had of this room, the inherent trust he had for the knick-knacks and items on the shelves, or the pictures on the walls, Dean entered the room and approached the bed… As soon as he saw what was on it, though, the sensation of warmth and comfort faded from his stomach and was replaced with chilling dread.

Draped across the lovely, comfy-looking rust-coloured duvet of Santa’s bed was a big, bright red velvet Santa suit, the edges lined in fluffy white trim and big black buttons shining like they’d been freshly polished. Two boots were set neatly beside the outfit, gleaming as if brand new. A hat, pressed and flawless, was displayed above the suit where the hypothetical head would be.

Dean’s hypothetical head. 

Fuck.

“ _No_ ,” Dean said with a growl, shaking his head. “Fuck. No. I’m not wearing this FUCKING SUIT!”

Beside the suit, folded on the bed was a piece of elegant parchment. When Dean snatched it up and opened it, black curly penmanship said:

 _Yes, you ARE_ _going to wear the suit. It’ll need to be voluntary, but rest assured, if you want your brother and lover returned to you alive, you’ll put on the suit. You’ll play your role._

_Meet us in the centre square._

_Love, Bernard_

“ _NO!_ ” Dean bellowed, grabbing the piece of paper and crunching it up into a small ball that he whipped into another roaring fireplace just at the foot of the bed. “FUCK YOU, BERNARD! I’m gonna snap your little murderous neck, I swear to God, you motherf—”

***

“....you’re gonna fucking _squeal_ when I get my fucking paws on you, you mangy twerp!” 

Dean was still uttering threats to Bernard as he stomped his way around the back of the buildings again, retracing his steps. Except this time, instead of avoiding the center square, where he’d been sure there’d be elves, he cut through the passageway between the mess hall and Santa’s office, his feet spraying fluffy snow out behind him and in front of him, flying back against his jeans, soaking in and making his skin itch.

He squeezed his fist around the Santa suit he’d dragged out of the house with him. He had a point to prove, damn it, and he was gonna make sure it was understood _clearly_ by all. The point was: Dean was going to smash every single tiny elf face to a pulp with his goddamn fists if a single hair was touched on Sam or Cas’ heads.

“SAM! CAS!” Dean roared as he stepped into the center square, eyes zeroing in on a huge crowd of elves. The reason, clearly, that the compound had seemed empty was because everyone had been gathered here. The tiny beings turned to face him, making a pathway as he stomped determinedly towards the bright christmas tree they all faced. If he didn’t feel like murdering them all and getting the fuck outta dodge, he might’ve taken some time to marvel at how magical and special the enormous tree was. It must’ve been like thirty-five feet tall, decked to the nines in Christmas and holiday beauty, twinking in a rainbow of lights, baubles and tree branches dusted in a glaze of snow—

“BERNARD!” 

The tiny elf spun on the spot to face Dean, a pocket watch in his hand and _Castiel’s trenchcoat_ on his tiny, shitty body.

“Dean!” Bernard exclaimed, eyes gleeful and twinking in a way that only meant trouble. “You decided to join us, and _oh_ , you brought the suit! It’ll be such a pleasure to see you don it. Everyone has gathered to witness the momentous event. This is the final step in your auguration as our new Saint Nick!”

“TAKE OFF THAT FUCKING COAT, BERNARD!”

Dean was _almost_ quite shocked with himself for the amount of righteous rage in his scream and the spit that flew out of his mouth. But the image of Castiel’s _trenchcoat_ on someone else, the sleeves rolled up because the arms were too long, and the bottom edge dragging in the snow… It was offensive. It was so offensive.

“But Dean,” Bernard chuckled as Dean approached, seeming unbothered by the gun being pointed at his face, “Castiel isn’t using it right now...Although, I reckon he should since he looks a bit nippy.”

Stopping a few feet away from the elf, aiming the gun at him, his lips curled and his voice not louder than a hiss, Dean asked, “What the fuck are you talking ab—”

But Dean didn’t need to finish his sentence. Just as he was about to ask for more details, another horde of elves behind Bernard broke away in two groups, revealing a giant snow globe between them. 

Inside the snowglobe were Sam and Cas, forced down onto their knees, their hands tied with tinsel behind their backs to two giant candy canes piercing up through the copious amounts of snow gathered on the bottom of the globe. Around them, a storm whirled, heavy snow creeping up the side of the glass, like they were trapped in an enclosed blizzard. While both of them were conscious, both had a distinctly pale tinge to their skin, their lips blue, and limbs shaking.

Even Cas, who wasn’t supposed to be affected by the cold, looked just as bad as Sam. He was, of course, trenchcoat-less, looking much smaller than usual in his white button-up and dangling blue tie.

“What’d you do to them?” Dean asked, shoving past Bernard, dropping the Santa suit in the snow and rushing right up to the glass, his hand pressed against it only for a moment before he yelped and yanked it back, his palm seizing against the biting arctic freeze that permeated the glass.

“Them?” Bernard asked, walking around Dean, gazing at the globe. “We just popped them in this contained blizzard. 30 degrees below, snow-levels rising—it’ll be eight feet before it’s all over—and neither of them can move. By midnight, both will be drowned under heavy packing snow.” Bernard’s bushy brows jumped with excitement as his eyes flashed at Dean. “Pretty neat, huh? I always knew harnessing the powers of winter would work in my favour. Of course, Castiel won’t think so, as he’ll be the first to go. He’s shorter, you see. Closer to the ground. He’ll be buried under snow and suffocated before Sam will. Sam will just have to feel him fight beside him until the snow becomes too heavy and Castiel eventually goes still. You’d think he’d be fine,with all that angel grace, but the powers I have in the North Pole far surpass his. Just look at how entirely human he is in this globe of mine! Fascinating! Just _fascinating,_ isn’t it?” 

Dean stared at Bernard, then raised his cold hand and used it to slap that little elf right across the face, sending him sprawling in the snow. While all the elfs squealed and some rushed to help Bernard up, Dean turned towards the globe and stared in panic at Cas, who didn't seem to see him. Waist deep in snow, Cas seemed to already have begun to succumb to the temperature, his shoulders shaking, his head bowed, his blue eyes obscenely clear as they stared glassily at the snow in front of him. Beside him, Sam was wracked with tremors, his long hair froze, wobbling in his face. Sam, too, had stopped fighting.

“How long have they been in there?” Dean snarled, rounding on Bernard. "H-How do I get them out?"

Bernard, assisted to his feet by his fellow elves, huffed, rubbing at his face where Dean has struck him. He jerked Cas' coat over his shoulder where it's slipped off.

"Not too long," he replied snidely. "An hour, perhaps two? Time moves differently here, Dean. Midnight approaches in mere minutes. Tsk tsk, you dallied, didn't you?"

Dean's heart seemed to stop. His mouth dropped open and he choked, "You gave me until midnight. When I grabbed that stupid globe it was still morning. What the fuck, gremlin? You can't _change_ the conditions of the—"

Bernard smirked something fierce and he pointed at the Santa suit discarded thoughtlessly on the ground in a heap. "Dean, it took you over 12 hours to travel here."

Remembering the instant way he'd been transported to the north pole, Dean stared at the elf. "I was here in a second, I—"

"Don't have any concept of how you travel the globe now?" Bernard offered, and around him, the elves broke into knowing giggles that made Dean feel nauseous and icky.

"I don't got time for this," Dean said weakly, turning back to the globe, noticing with a growing sense of panic that the snow was at Cas's chest level. The elf was right; Dean had minutes before Cas was buried.

But Bernard was feeling his villain speech because he went on. "How do you think you'll be expected to travel the globe to deliver gifts to children if you're working on human time?"

Cas raised his head, his eyes glossy. Under his eyes was so dark and sunken that they looked bruised. His skin looked like porcelain. They made eye contact, but quickly Dean realised Cas couldn't see him, because Cas' face crumpled in pain, as did Sam's. They wouldn't have otherwise let him see how affected they were. Dean saw the top of the globe fog up, ice creeping down over the sides as the temperature dropped in the blizzard. 

"I'm not delivering gifts," Dean choked. "I'm not gonna play this fucking game."

"Then," Bernard said simply, "they die."

Fuck that noise. Dean stepped away from the globe and snapped up his gun.

_BANG! Bangbangbang--_

_Ping… Ping, ping, ping!_

The bullets collided with the glass, splintering and cracking but not breaking. For a suspenseful moment, as he watched the veining crawl up the glass, Dean was sure the globe would explode open and snow would pour out, along with Cas and Sam. But before his eyes, the glass twinkled with green and red magic and was left...perfect. flawless. Gleaming. Not a crack. Not even a fingerprint. It was impermeable.

The snow was at Cas' neck, and creeping up Sam's chest.

Dean spun on his heel. "Let them out."

"Put on the suit."

"Let them _out_."

"Just put on the suit."

"LET THEM OUT, YOU FUCKING LITTLE—"

_BANG! Bang! Bang! Bangbangbangbangbangbangbang--_

The entire center square filled with shrieks of terror, the elves tripping over each other to get away from Dean, who was unloading his gun into the heap of red velvet and fluff in the snow.

Bernard stared at the ten smoking bullet holes in the Santa suit, his eyes narrowing. 

" _Fuck_ your suit," Dean spat, raising his gun to point between Bernard's eyes. "Let them go. Cas' powers may not work up here, but my gun works _just fine_. Glad to hear it, too, because I'll be emptying this into your face the second Cas' head goes under that snow. And you'd better hope Sam's doesn't go under either because I'm quick on the reload and I'll start taking out any pointy-eared fucker who tries to stop me from blowing that globe up with fuckin' dynamite."

He was, of course, lying through his teeth. He had one or two bullets left, max, and he couldn't kill Bernard. He needed that goblin alive in order to get Sam and Cas out of that magical glass ball still breathing.

Still, the flash of fear spreading through the eyes of surrounding elves certainly didn't hurt.

"You serve The North Pole. You serve the Forces of Christmas," Bernard declared, his eyes triumphant and alight, his cheeks rosy and dimpled as he grinned. "There's no point in fighting it. Put on the suit. It's the last step. Everything else will simply fall into place."

Dean turned away, his heart pounding, his pulse thumping in his ears. Cas was tilting his head back, gasping for air as the snow pushed up, around his ears and chin, the flakes falling heavily into his mouth. Sam was breathing hard, snow blowing up in front of his face, his fringe shuddering before his eyes. 

Their skin looked blue compared to the stark white heavy blizzard snow. 

They'd die. Freeze. Suffocate. 

And all because Dean didn't want to play Santa for one damn night. Because he didn't like to be told what to do, or who to be. Because he was still so traumatized from Michael. 

Say yes, Bernard had said. Just as Michael had said...

If he said yes to Santa, his body wouldn't be his anymore. It be a conduit for yet another mystical mission. His agency would be an allusion. Sure, maybe Christmas was one night, but what if they tricked him. What if it kept going after? What if they kept needing him for something? 

Like Michael. They'd had a deal. A deal that'd meant nothing in the end. 

But…

"CAS!"

Dean threw himself up against the glass, ramming his shoulder into the snow globe over and over the moment the tips of Cas hair were lost under the rising snow.

His fists pounded the glass. Sam eyes were rolling back as the snow rose over his nose and mouth. His frost-covered brows disappears under white…

_"SAM!"_

His mind filled with visions of walking into an empty bunker, and of having to tell Jack that Sam and Cas' had died, and of having to explain to him that they were gone because of his own selfishness—

He pictured Sam's room. Empty. 

He imagined having to fold up the trenchcoat and put it away in a box. His heart ached as he remembered the picture he'd snapped days ago, of Cas' big gummy smile and the crinkly creases at the corner of his eyes, and that dumb hat on his head…

Cas and Sam were buried. 

Dean spun around and pointed to the suit with his trembling gun. "I-I'll wear the suit. I'll wear it, God, just save them."

Bernard tapped at his chin, wincing in fake concern. "They may be dead already. The angel didn't react well to elven magic dimming his grace."

"I'LL PUT IT ON, DAMN IT—"

A horrible twinkle glittered in Bernard's eye and he pointed a spindly finger at the red suit, which had miraculously weaved itself into flawless condition at some point in the last minute or so. "Put it on."

Dean looked back at the globe, feeling sweat mingle with the light snowfall melting on his cheeks. 

The globe was filled to the top with snow. Packed in tight. There was no Sam. No Cas. No oxygen in that entire thing. Even if they were conscious, if they were alive, they couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. 

Dean's gun dropped onto the powdery ground with a thud and he threw himself into the snow, his hands scrambling to pull the sleeves up over his hoodie. His hands were frozen, beet red from the cold, but he felt himself sweating as he hauled the heavy red coat onto his shoulders and scrambled to his feet to shove his legs into the stupid, _stupid_ pants _._

It was simultaneously the dumbest and most horrifying experience of his life as the elves watched him shove his limbs into the stupid suit that fit him frustratingly well.

Once done, panting and staring between the globe and Bernard, who looked positively gleeful, Dean felt like he was going to blow a gasket. "Well?" he barked. "Get with the saving!"

With one quick wink, the elf clicked their fingers and there was a crash. Everyone stumbled back, but Dean was frozen to place as the glass shattered into shards and from within it spilled what seemed like two metric tons of snow, crashing into his legs and sweeping a few elves off their feet. 

Still tied to the candy cane poles, Cas slumped forward, his chin on his chest, his skin sickly and colourless. Sam was conscious, but panting, only having been under the snow for a handful of seconds. He would have held his breath. He would've known to. Cas would not have ever needed to... He'd been gasping before being overcome.

Dean was clamouring over the thigh-deep snow, pushing it away with his frigid hands, his heart pounding as Sam groaned and shook his head, snow and ice falling from his hair. His breath was curled in the air, and his lips trembled, but as Dean got his hands on him, Sam managed to croak, "Fuck these elves, dude."

There was another snap from behind them, and the tinsel around Sam and Cas' hands disappeared in a dusting of green magic. With Sam conscious, he was fine, but Cas was still out, and so Dean had to grab him before he went face first into the snow. 

"Cas?" Dean whispered, turning Cas in his arms, tapping at Castiel's cold face with his own red, freezing hand. "Dude, please. Please wake up."

"F-Fuckers knocked me out cold," Sam chattered as Dean started shaking Cas and rubbing his hands over his face in hopes it would warm him up. "D-Dunno what they did to C-Cas, but when we woke up here, he said he c-c-couldn't feel his g-grace. Said he was f-freezing and that he couldn't feel what kinda magic w-was trapping us."

"Relax," Bernard said, striding up beside him and smirking. He clapped a pissed off looking Sam on the frosty, snow-covered shoulder and gestured around them. "I used the magic of Christmas, _hello_? No one was ever meant to die. Get some frost bite, sure. Enter a slight coma, I mean, _maybe_. But Sam will be fine, and the angel?" Bernard reached down and pressed his fingers to Castiel's forehead.

Dean tried to jerk Castiel away, holding him closer to his chest, pushing his face into his neck. "Hey, evil Elsa, fuck off! Touch him and I'll fucking kill y—"

Against his chest, Cas started, coughing wetly and clawing at Dean's shoulder, trying to haul himself up.

"Cas?" Dean asked, his heart exploding into a million warm pieces as the cold and slightly damp snow angel blinked hard and found his footing, though he left his hands on Dean's shoulders. 

Bernard shrugged. "See? He's fine— _ahhh!_ "

Bernard ducked when Cas half-lunged for him, and was only saved by Dean holding him back. 

"Y-Y-You good for n-nothing ugly little i-i-imp!" Cas croaked in between coughing up a bit of snow from his mouth and grasping at Dean until his legs seemed to shake so hard he nearly fell over. "I-I'm going to pull your intestines out through your mouth—"

"Jesus," Sam breathed. "Cas hates b-being cold, huh?"

To Dean's secret delight, Cas let himself be pulled into Dean's personal space, though his head was twisted around to glare at Bernard like he was trying to smite him from a distance. 

"I-I can handle the c-cold but it's the paralysis of my grace, t-the feeling of my v-vessel shutting down, and the asphyxiation that I w-was not particularly f-fond of," Castiel spat, as venomously as he could when he was shaking like a leaf and half-frozen like a sexy popsicle.

Sam stumbled through the high snow and pointed at Bernard. "H-Hey, isn't t-that Cas' coat?"

Around them, elves giggled. Bernard managed to look partially embarrassed and nodded. He clicked his fingers and suddenly the coat was in his hands, folded neatly. Jutting the garment towards them, he said, "I was warming it up for you."

"Screw you," Cas hissed, and Dean had never felt more proud.

"Here," Dean murmured, reaching out to snatch the coat from Bernard. He shook it out and swept the coat around Cas, tightening it around his shoulders, tucking it in close to his neck. 

For good measure, Dean pulled Cas in close again, Sam and the angels be damned. Castiel’s kiss rejection be damned. This was for _warmth,_ that’s all.

Cas looked up at Dean and his dry, cracked lips trembled into a small smile. Funny, his eyes still looked beautifully clear and vibrant even when his skin had a tinge of competing blue. Dean found himself smiling back, feeling warmth return to occupy the space where panic had vacated. His hand came up and he ruffled Cas' hair, shaking snow from the brown locks. 

"Much better," Dean murmured.

Cas nodded, shuddering. But at least he was smiling. "Yes, much. Thank you for saving us, Dean."

Ah. Right. That reminded Dean. 

He turned on the spot and put a hand on Sam's shoulder to ensure he was all right as well, and when he received a nod of assurance, Dean turned on Bernard and the rest of the elves. 

"Fuck. You." 

Bernard grinned and the rest of the elves all beamed at him. "You've accepted your destiny. Everything will simply fall into place now. Thank you, Dean. You've saved Christmas."

"Fuck—" Dean jutted a finger at him. "—you, punk. I didn't accept shit, I was forced into this."

Sam seemed to have joined the land of the living because he did a visible double take and said hoarsely, "Dude, you're dressed like Santa Claus."

"Yes, hello, Sam," Dean grumbled with a narrowing of his eyes. He turned back to the elf. "What now? Christmas is two fucking days away."

Bernard swept his arms around, gesturing to the red brick buildings and he beamed. "You settle in. Let us train you, lead you to success. We'll—"

"Oh, fuck no, Rudolph. You're not leading me anywhere. We're going home. I'm taking your fucking hostages and I'm getting the hell outta dodge."

A tiny elf behind Bernard poked its head out from behind Bernard's knees and squeaked, "But, father, how will you Ride?"

Dean bared his teeth at the pixie and snapped, "First, I'm not your daddy, you little shit. And I'm gonna ride how I always ride; figuring it out the hard way and doing it at my own goddamn fucking pace. Rough but—"

"Gross," Sam groaned.

In his arms, Cas shifted and cleared his throat, staring down at the snow where his shoes were buried. 

Dean realised what he'd said and backtracked, flushing with embarrassment. Way to out his fantasies in front of Cas and all of the North Pole. "Not what I meant, Sam! Get your mind outta the gutter!"

Bernard pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Of all the idiots to have killed Santa, it had to be you."

Dean flipped the elf the middle finger and barked, "I'm going home, and when it's time for me to wear this fucking suit for real, you email me an instruction manual. Do _not_ show up at my fucking house again, do you get it? I don't wanna see your ugly, pinched little face ever again."

The elves were starting to clear out, apparently having watched enough of Dean putting on his suit—his goddamn comfortable as fuck suit—to satisfy their perverted little Christmas desires. However, Bernard stayed, sliding his hands into the pockets of his green velvet trousers. 

"Very well. But the forces of Christmas will continue to prepare you for the ride. By midnight of Christmas Eve, you will believe."

Grabbing Sam by the sleeve and tugging Cas through the snow, leading them away from the wreckage of the globe, Dean barked over his shoulder, "Oh, I believe. I believe if you ever show your fucking face in my life again, I'll let Cas do that messed up stuff to your intestines."

Finally, Bernard had nothing quippy to say, and Dean was left in peace to trudge away with the loved ones he'd come to save. 

He wished he felt like he won. But, as he led them around a building and focused on home, transporting them back to the bunker, Dean felt like this mess had only gotten worse.

With a sinking, cold feeling in his chest, Dean resigned himself to there being much, much more yuletide bullshit to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter! If you're enjoying the story, drop me a comment and let me know what your favourite bit was! We adore feedback from y'all, and love to know that this cracky, silly little ficlet is making your heart wiggle.
> 
> If you're not enjoying this free story and wish to be mean about it, please leave me a comment by clicking the little 'x' button on the top right-hand corner of your screen. :D
> 
> Merry Christmas, lovies! And to all those who do not celebrate Christmas but are here to enjoy the ride anyway, I hope you're having a good, happy December, and thanks for joining us! <3
> 
> I love y'all, have a lovely day. Join us tomorrow (or, like, technically today, shhhhh) for Ping's chapter!


	5. Sleigh Bells Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The magical Forces of Christmas have cornered Dean into putting on the suit and agreeing to The Ride, but there's one important thing missing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope a very Merry Christmas, or whatever you may celebrate, was had by all!
> 
> Myself, I'm looking forward to not having Jingle Bell Rock stuck in my head at all hours of the day. 
> 
> Here is your next dose of Bad Santa Dean! 
> 
> This chapter could not have been brought to you without castielslostwings help, or the speedy betaing attentions of jscribbles and SOBS. 
> 
> Thanks, all of you!
> 
> \- Mal <3

  
  


As soon as the bunker materialized, Dean let go of Sam and guided Cas to a chair at the map table, his fingers lingering a little too long on his sleeve. He’d about had the scare of his life back there, and if stealing a little physical comfort helped convince him that Castiel was _alive_ and safe, well. Dean was willing to do whatever mental gymnastics he needed to in order to convince himself that the touch didn’t mean anything more than that.

Probably sensing his concern, Cas smiled slightly up at him, looking tense and worn, but at least all the color had returned to his face. “I’m fine, Dean,” he said reassuringly. “It would appear that simply leaving that place allowed me to feel my grace again.”

“Good,” Dean said quietly.

Sam coughed. “I’m alright too, thanks for asking.” He smirked when Dean glared back reflexively, but Sam was right. There was no part of Dean that was okay with what happened, and it wasn’t remotely lost on him that he could have been coming back to the bunker under _very_ different circumstances. 

“Your giant moose head kept you above the snow a hell of a lot longer,” Dean pointed out defensively.

While they bickered, Castiel just rested his forehead in his palm and sighed tiredly. Dean couldn’t tell if it was in reaction to Sam’s jibe or his own exhaustion. Not that any of them had time to rest. There was still the whole matter of Dean (sort of) agreeing to take on The Ride, and the fact that he didn’t have a sleigh to do so, even if he wanted to. Although, if he was being perfectly honest, Dean was definitely still holding out hope that Sam and his giant brain would find them a way out of this whole mess altogether.

A heavy silence descended over the War Room for a long moment while they each processed what had happened and, presumably, contemplated what was coming next. Sam, ever the practical one, spoke up again first.

“If we want to get ahead of this thing, we’re going to have to pull out all the stops. Research-wise, I mean.”

Cas raised his head and gestured around them. “At this point, it’s interminably clear that the bunker’s warding is useless as a defense mechanism. I know that this is not what you want to hear, Dean, but I believe we need to proceed in a more focused manner than we have been. The question now is not _will you,_ but _how_ will you?”

Grudgingly, Dean nodded, folding his arms across his chest. “Doesn’t mean I’m buying this thing as a whole,” he reminded both Cas and Sam. “One night is one thing. I can _maybe_ wrap my head around that. But you both gotta promise, we spend the next three hundred and sixty-four days after that figuring out how to get me out of doing it again.” 

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel agreed readily, and at least they were on the same page, there.

Across the room, Sam looked thoughtful. “I did find a _lot_ more lore on the actual mechanics and magic of _Santa Claus_ , the mythical creature or theoretical concept, than anything regarding the actual _Clause,_ the clause.”

“Speak English,” Dean grunted irritably, while Castiel spoke at the same time. 

“Can we find it in two days?”

“One,” Sam replied uncomfortably, ignoring Dean. “We actually only have one day and some change. It’s already the twenty-third, according to my phone.”

“Fuck,” Dean swore, running a hand through his hair. “This is really happening, isn’t it? I mean, missing sleigh issue aside.” He had no doubt that if it came down to that, Bernard would probably show up in the bunker to drop a sleigh at his feet, smug bastard that he was. Dean privately stewed about how he’d like to drop a sleigh on _him,_ Wicked Witch of the East style. 

When Dean looked up again, Castiel had dug his own phone out of his pocket and was squinting down at the screen like it had personally offended him. “It seems that way,” he said absently. “How is it the twenty-third?”

At least that question, Dean could answer. “Turns out traveling via the Polar Express isn’t exactly as convenient as Angel Air. Something about time and space, I dunno, listening to Bernard wasn’t exactly top of my “To Do” list right then.” He grumbled, “Look, I don’t like it, but if you guys are willing to help, I’m sure we can make it happen together. Sam, what’s the lore say about _after?_ Once Christmas is over, it all goes poof, right? I get my rockin’ body back, no one’s the worse for the wear.”

“Bernard did say that the temporal proximity to Christmas strengthened his abilities,” Cas recalled.

Sam hesitated. “I’m not sure I’ve read enough about those aspects of Santa’s magic to say for certain, but that theory does make sense. Up until this point, I was mostly zeroing in on anything that could break the curse. Except, as you know, it turned out to not exactly _be_ a curse.”

“Yeah, yeah, we know the story,” Dean grunted. “Alright, so, I have to be Christmas’ bitch.” He threw up his hands. “I put on the pounds, I put on the suit, I’ve been to Santa’s Workshop. So I follow through and get everyone their Christmas wishes. It’ll suck, but I was Death for a day once too, can’t be worse than that.”

“Sort of seems like if you’re comparing Santa Claus to Death, it might be that bad,” Sam mused.

“This is Team Free Will, Sam, not Team Father Christmas’ Butt Monkeys.”

Sam raised his hands up in a placating gesture, but even Dean had to smile a little at his own joke. 

“Anyway, I need a drink,” he announced, clapping Cas on the shoulder as he walked towards the kitchen. “You nerds hit the books, and I’ll do what Santa does best.” He slapped his belly and tried not to grimace when it both jiggled and grumbled hungrily at the same time. Self-deprecation: Dean’s last measure of emotional defense.

As Dean left Sam and Cas behind in the war room, his stomach really did kick it up a notch. He tried to remember when the last meal he had was, and found that he couldn’t. Over the past few days, it had become harder and harder to stomach any of his go-to snacks and now _nothing_ sounded appetizing. Well, things _sounded_ appetizing—burgers, a nice steak, a big bucket of heavily salted and greasy fries—but when Dean actually imagined consuming them, he had to choke down the bile that rose in his throat.

_What the hell was that about?_

Rummaging in the bunker’s fridge, Dean fished out his favorite beer. Popping the top off the comforting, familiar bottle of Margiekugels, he adamantly ignored the garish, bright red of his Santa getup reflecting off of the kitchen’s chrome fittings as he drank a long pull. He expected the satisfying relief that always came with that first cold, bubbly swig, but it didn’t come.

Instead, his stomach seized up the second the beer hit it and Dean winced, struggling just to keep it down. He groaned and doubled over, that one sip sitting like a heavy stone in his gut. “What the f—”

Cut off by a wave of nausea, Dean made his way to the sink and vomited, bile and beer spewing yellow and fizzy against the metal. 

“Ugh,” Dean said, spitting and wiping his mouth with a dishrag. 

Alright, so maybe beer wasn’t the best choice on an empty stomach. Not that it had ever bothered him before, and Dean had been drinking beer since he was a teenager. But whatever, his body was different these days. He rinsed out the sink before making his way back over to the fridge and staring blankly at its contents. 

There was some leftover Chinese food in takeout containers that Dean knew held his favorites. Beef and Broccoli, Shrimp Lo Mein, and an egg roll. Those things didn’t sound particularly appetizing in his head, but Dean shook that off and pulled them out anyway. He was _hungry,_ starving even, he could feel it. He was surprised Cas and Sam couldn’t hear his damn stomach rumbling all the way in the other room. So, why was he so ambivalent about his food choices? Normally he’d have devoured half the fridge by now. 

As he waited for the leftovers to warm up in the microwave, Dean bit his nails and tried not to acknowledge the growing nausea he felt at the smells that were filling the kitchen. When it beeped, Dean moved all three containers to the counter and grabbed a fork. No sense in trying to fit himself at the table right now, anyway. Lifting a big forkful of noodles and shrimp to his mouth, Dean forced himself to focus on the hunger, and not the other, even less pleasant sensations.

Unfortunately, he knew as soon as he started chewing that this was not going to go well. Swallowing heavily, Dean managed to force the large bite down through nothing but sheer willpower, though once he had, he felt nothing but regret. Fighting against the growing queasy feeling building in his abdomen, Dean used the back of his sleeve to wipe beading sweat from his forehead.

“Oh fuck,” he murmured, bracing his hands against the edge of the counter and bending over to try and quell the nausea. 

It didn’t work. Thirty seconds later, he was bent over the industrial sink, his belly rejecting his offering in violent heaves that continued long past when Dean was _sure_ his stomach had to be empty. He was so caught up and so miserable that he failed to notice a presence appear at his side, pressing a cool, damp cloth to his forehead and rubbing his back.

Only when the spasms subsided and Dean was able to finally catch his breath, face pressed against the cool steel as he moaned, did he register Castiel speaking to him softly. 

“You’re alright,” Cas murmured, stroking the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, an action that made Dean both want to lean in and twist away, knowing what that hair looked like at the moment. 

“Cas,” Dean gasped, then moaned. “I don’t think I—I can’t eat. I’m starving, and I can’t eat. What the hell? Santa has to eat, doesn’t he?” 

Miserable, Dean allowed Castiel to get an arm around his shoulders and guide him to a stool at the table. He had to sit sideways and lean on the table for support, but at least he was sitting. He looked up at Castiel mournfully, but Castiel just patted his head and made for the pantry. “Cas, I’m not up for doing this experiment again,” Dean said sadly. “I think I’m just gonna go lay down.”

But Castiel ignored him, his arms full of packages as he pulled a half-gallon of milk out of the fridge. Even if he wasn’t already feeling sick, Dean thought he would have questioned whether that milk was drinkable. How long had it been in there? 

Except, a glass of milk actually sounded _good._ And when he saw what Castiel had in his hands— _cookies—_ his mouth actually watered, this time not from impending vomiting. “Holy shit,” Dean muttered as his nausea rapidly transformed into something much more familiar— _a craving._ “Gimme,” he demanded, practically ripping a package of Oreos from Castiel’s grasp. 

Tearing it open, he barely paused before stuffing four in his mouth and sighing in abject relief. 

“Ohfug,” he mumbled, eyes nearly rolling back in his head. Dean grabbed the milk and twisted the cap off, chugging it without thinking and moaning around the opening to the jug. “ _Damn,_ ” he sighed happily, milk still dribbling down his chin. The food and drink sat perfectly settled in his stomach and he felt _better._

That feeling, however, was short-lived. As Dean slowly processed the implications, the smile melted off of his face like ice cream in the sun. “Oh no,” he said, looking up at Castiel, who was watching him worriedly. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he tried. “Sam found—” 

Dean groaned and dropped his head onto his arm on the table. He didn’t need to hear what _Sam found,_ it was as obvious as his stupid suit was red. 

He couldn’t eat anything but milk and cookies.

The white-static-panic he’d felt when he couldn’t fit behind the wheel of his baby was back and with a vengeance. 

Dean wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

“We’re here, boys!” Donna’s voice boomed down the bunker steps, full of Christmas cheer as her festive red cowboy boots clanged their way down the metal stairway. 

“We brought cookies!” Jack announced merrily.

Dean groaned. Of course, of course they brought cookies. 

Sam, Dean, and Castiel had been researching all night. It was now morning, technically Christmas Eve, and the creak of the heavy iron door up above them as Jack and Donna let themselves in was the first sound they’d heard for several hours, other than low level muttering and cussing as their books turned up nothing.

“Welcome home, bud,” Sam said from his spot at the war room map table. They had research spread out everywhere; Sam’s boots were kicked up on a sliver of Alaska that was just visible under thick, leather bound tomes, and Castiel had claimed a portion of north-eastern Russia for his elbow. Beyond that, the whole world was a sea of parchment, ledgers, and archaic books that certainly weren’t the ones they dipped into regularly.

Castiel lifted his head from where it had been resting in one of his hands, braced above a hefty tome labeled _De Occulta Philosophia a Bruma Noctem._ “Secrets of the midwinter night”, Castiel had said, might be their best bet for OG Father Christmas knowledge.

Well, of course Cas hadn’t _said_ “OG”, but Dean thought it in his head.

“Hello, Jack,” Castiel said, smiling warmly as he turned from the table. “Did you have a good time staying with Donna?”

The Nephil didn’t answer. He stood on the second to last step, his mouth open so wide, jaw hanging so low, that he froze and blocked Donna’s progress down the steps. 

Dean groaned again as he slowly looked up to meet Jack’s eyes. “Hey, kid,” he said, after a fat pause. (Because all of his pauses were now fat pauses, Dean thought saltily.)

Jack’s chipmunk-y, happy little face was brightening from the inside. When he got that look—the chipmunk-y one—Dean usually thought it was kind of adorable, though he would have never admitted to thinking that out loud. This particular Jack expression though… He looked like he’d swallowed a bunch of multi-colored Christmas tree lights. He _glowed_ with Christmas spirit, and he was looking at Dean as if Dean was the idol on his Christmas altar.

Goddamn it.

“Hey, Jack,” Dean tried again.

“ _Santa,”_ Jack breathed out, regaining the use of his feet and speeding across the room.

Oh God. 

Dean barely had time to stand before Jack was crushing him in a hug. Thanks to his superior angel reflexes, Castiel managed to rescue the tray of cookies that Jack abandoned in mid-air with just one hand. Cas rolled his eyes quite fondly as he put the tray down on the table, on top of several rolls of parchment, before turning his amused blue gaze back to Jack.

“Yes, Jack,” Castiel said. “Dean has fully transformed into Saint Nicholas. But he is somewhat sensitive about it, so perhaps don’t—”

“I am not _sensitive,_ ” Dean bit out over top of Jack’s head. “How would you feel if you were morphed into an oversized grandpa that no one believes is real?”

“Awesome,” Jack said, so softly that Dean almost missed it. He had pulled back, and was taking in all of Dean—the beard, the gut, the bushy eyebrows, the suit.

The suit. 

Dean had discovered, upon trying to do something as mundane as _take a damn shower_ the night before, that the suit did not come off.

Fuckin’ elves hadn’t mentioned that part, oddly enough.

The heavy, thick suit (which fit Dean far better than he was comfortable admitting) had sealed itself around Dean’s body like a wetsuit, clinging to his skin perfectly. There were still buttons on the front, but they didn’t do anything, and whenever Dean got mad and tried to pull the top half up over his head, his fingers simply...wandered elsewhere. Magic. Fuckin’ magic. Dean had always thought witches were the worst—boy, was he wrong. Elves, man. All the way. 

So Dean hadn’t been able to take his shower (where he may have been considering taking the time to contemplate how a certain angel’s body had felt, pressed up against his, during the aftermath of the dramatic snow globe rescue at the North Pole). He could use the bathroom, as long as he didn’t try to make the red pants go below his knees.

 _Ho fucking ho_ , Dean thought miserably.

Jack was staring at the suit like it was a beautiful piece of art. His hands stretched out, his eyelashes fluttering as he sat the pads of his fingers amidst the white fur strip that stretched down Dean’s front, with the black buttons on it. Jack _stroked_ , just a bare inch.

“Hey!” barked Dean. “Hands off. I am not for _petting._ ”

“It—it’s soft,” Jack said apologetically, snatching his hand back. “I’m sorry.”

Huffing moodily, Dean dropped back into his seat, sticking his nose back into a Georgian book that had been very poorly translated to English by a questionably sober monk. If this one did have the answer to his festive issue, Dean considered, then there was a fair chance his cure had been sixteenth-century typoed to death.

As she always did, Donna seemed to take everything in stride. “Well, wouldya look at this place?” she said, looking around the war room at the feeble decorations.

After heading back from Anoka, having casually murdered Santa version one, Jack had managed to persuade Sam to put up the decorations that they’d purchased during their Walmart trip.

Dean wasn't an expert at Christmases. Most of his had been in motels, and he’d almost been eaten during one of them. So, perhaps his perspective on Christmas wasn’t the most...normal. But whatever normal looked like, Dean was pretty sure it wasn’t this.

The ten dollar tree (“It was on sale, Dean!”) was lop-sided, and at least a quarter of its branches bare. It was like a Charlie Brown tree, Dean had said when they put it up. If Charlie Brown had fallen on really hard times, and ended up living in a crack den.

(Which led to Dean being unceremoniously scolded by Sam, for having to explain to Jack what a crack den was.) 

The crack-tree was decorated with six different colors of plasticky tinsel, none of which matched. Baubles had been a novel idea to Jack, but getting them in a size that matched the tree hadn’t occurred to him. So, what they had only covered half of the tree. The other half, they’d made do with what they found in the store rooms of the bunker.

Dean was pretty sure that what Donna was squinting at right then was a de-cursed rabbit’s foot.

“Festive!” she said, managing to sound like she really meant it. That woman must fart rainbows, Dean decided. 

“We, uh, tried,” Sam said, smiling tightly. “Jack really wanted a little of the spirit of Christmas in the bunker.”

Donna giggled as she turned away from the tree, winking at Dean. “Looks like he got a _lot_ of the spirit of Christmas in the bunker, am I right?”

Dean narrowed his eyes, squinting at Donna grumpily. For the first time, he registered that she was wearing flashing antlers in amongst her curly, non-work hair, and a chunky sweater that bore the image of two suited nutcrackers, with the phrase, “Crack Deez Nuts” embroidered underneath. _Oh...Donna._ Dean stifled a laugh.

“It’s good to see you, Dean,” she said, much more softly, coming across to slap his shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze. “How ya hangin’ in there?”

Dean gave her a half-hearted smile. “Fine,” he lied, before turning back to his book.

“Looks like,” she said, as sweet and non-judgemental as she always seemed to try to be. “Well, I won’t stay and bother you boys, unless you need my help on the research front?”

Castiel looked up, smiling gratefully at Donna, before flicking his eyes to Dean. “I’m sure that Dean appreciates your offer, Donna. I’m not sure what else there is to do, at this point. The only way forward seems to be, uh, through, as they say.”

Donna nodded, flashy antlers bouncing. “I getcha.”

Jack was still sat next to Dean, gazing at him with big, round doe eyes. 

“Knock it off,” Dean grumbled, hunching down in his chair.

“But Dean,” Jack said, “you’re _Santa._ I mean, I knew, and Donna said it was getting stronger the closer we got to Christmas, but...you’re really Santa, Dean!”

Dean groaned, sinking his head into his hands, research abandoned. “Look, kid, I am not _Santa._ I’m Dean. Dean goddamn Winchester, same as yesterday, same as last week, same as always.”

“But you don’t look the sa—”

“Jack!” Castiel interrupted swiftly, standing up and gripping Jack by the shoulder forcefully. “I think we need to check the library and see if there are any other tomes to consult. Come with me?”

“Of course.” Jack beamed, ever helpful, and trotted after Cas.

With a sigh of relief, Dean slunk down in his chair a little further. He had no idea how he’d be getting through this without Castiel.

“Well.” Donna cleared her throat awkwardly. “I suppose I should be heading over to Jodes’ place to see the girls. Promised Claire I’d go with her to the gun shop, get somethin’ shiny with a bow on it for Jody.”

“Sounds great, Donna,” Sam said, smiling crookedly. He rose from the table, walking around to give her a giant hug. “Thanks so much for taking Jack for us on such short notice.”

“Oh, the kid’s a joy,” she said, waving Sam off. “He did eat six candy bars in the car, though. I’d apologize, but I’m not real sorry.”

There was a crash from the direction of the library, followed by one of Castiel’s put-upon sighs. He really was an angel, in more ways than one, Dean thought with amusement.

Donna headed out, and they dug back into research, trying to ignore the war room clock ticking on toward evening.

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

_From Wodan and the Wild Hunt to Kris Kringle,_ the surprisingly new-looking book that Sam held announced itself as. _Tracing the Origins of Yuletide Magic._

Oh boy.

Dean cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair and spreading his hands wide. “Alright, lay it on me.”

“This is the same book that tipped me off about the whole, uh—” Sam paused to gesture at the empty sleeves of Oreos littering Dean’s research space. “—cookie thing. So I figured it had some solid info, and was worth a further look.

Dean nodded, subtly trying to slide some of the plastic wrappers off to the side, a strange sense of shame buzzing in his chest. “Yeah? And?”

“It seems like the key to the curse, or not-a-curse, is the present delivery, as we suspected. You have to get the gifts out the kids, before the effects will abate. It’s exactly as we thought. If you don’t complete The Ride…” Sam trailed off.

Well, that couldn’t be good. 

“Sam,” Dean said, raising an eyebrow, gesturing him onward.

“If, uh...well.” Sam said, eloquently, turning the book toward Dean.

On the page was a picture of an aggressive, angry-looking Santa figure. His eyes burned red, his hands hooked and clawed and dripping with blood, the snow at his illustrated feet sprinkled with crimson droplets. His suit, recognizably fuzzy and belted and buttoned, was green.

“Oh, HELL no,” Dean snapped, reaching forward and slapping the book shut. He raised a finger, pointing at Sam and Castiel. Jack, at the other end of the table, was looking at Dean, too, all sad and wide-eyed as Dean said, “Find. Me. A. Sleigh. Got it? We are going to find a way of getting a fucking sleigh, so I don’t turn into some blood-crazed, Krampus-Grinch-Thing. Y’hear?”

“Yes, Dean,” all three mumbled in response, quiet and tense.

“Maybe we need to suck it up and ask the elves,” Sam suggested after a few more heavily silent minutes of page leafing. “We could write a letter, or something—to Bernard, maybe? Or like...wish?” 

“That seems the wisest route to take,” Castiel agreed, before letting out a long sigh and pushing his book away. To Dean, he gave a rueful smile as he turned to face him. “I’m sorry that it’s come to this, Dean.”

Dean shrugged, jerking his shoulder a little too forcefully to feel natural as he stumbled up out of his seat. “Yeah, well. Whatever. I’m fine. Gonna…get a drink. The ol’ milk craving is hitting again.”

Luckily, Sam, Castiel, and even Jack let him get away with it. Dean scratched his stupid, itchy beard, and left them to it, heading off in search of milk, and somewhere that he could take a minute to fall apart alone. 

With as much reluctance as Dean could pack into his body—which was a lot, given that he had much more body than he was used to—Dean shuffled his way into the bunker kitchen. It was dim, and he flicked on another light before plodding his way to the refrigerator. Even his gait didn’t feel like his own anymore, he realized with a pissy huff. Plus, he was starting to get these weird shooting pains in his heels when he moved. Apparently, the Web MD app on his phone informed him, it was a pretty common thing for plus-sized folk, and could turn into something slightly unpronounceable that translated to “yet another reason to hate being Santa.” 

Sighing, Dean stared into the refrigerator, shaking his head with disgust as he grabbed a gallon of milk. He _wanted_ coffee, damnit. Coffee! Bitter, dark, and precious. Instead...milk. He didn’t have anything against milk. Chocolatey milk on cereal, strawberry milk in those little cartons from gas stations...but what kind of cruel Christmas regime came between a man and his coffee?

Dean moved across the room to sit down at the table in the kitchen, before eyeing it distrustfully. 

Maybe he could get used to being this size instead of the one he was accustomed to. Maybe he could make peace with the fact that, other than teasing just as hard as usual, Sam and Castiel had both been supportive of his sudden change. In fact, if anything, the teasing just cemented that they were treating him exactly the same as always—and he knew that if Sam was in his place, he’d have given it to Sam ten times worse. Maybe, he could get used to looking in the mirror and seeing this person.

But did everything in the whole world have to be set up for skinny people? Weren’t the majority of the population closer to this size than, say, the size of Dean’s wrist? 

Huffing out another annoyed sigh, Dean pulled the stool at the table right out, because there’s no way his stomach was fitting under there. He thumped the gallon of whole milk down onto the surface, causing the liquid to slosh around inside. Why even bother pouring a glass? This was all he could fucking get, after all. The mere idea of eating another cookie was horrifying.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greeted him as Dean settled his red, fuzzy self at the table.

Dean looked up, giving Castiel a brief smile before looking back down at his plastic milk jug. In what felt like a whole other pre-Santa life, Dean would have flashed Cas one of his megawatt smiles, might have winked, might have pulled out a stool. They’d been closer, like that, since Castiel had stayed after Michael. But now… Now he didn’t know where they stood. Anytime Dean was close to Cas, their almost-kiss at the ice rink played on a continual loop in the back of his mind. It was, well, embarassing was what it was. But Castiel? He just seemed to be carrying on as if nothing had happened most of the time.

Except for when he didn’t. When he’d make those suggestive little comments, or just...linger. 

Like he was doing now.

Castiel’s boots clicked across the floor as he walked to the table, settling himself down opposite Dean. 

“How are you?” he asked, solemn, with a smile gentle enough to melt some of Dean’s bad mood.

Dean gave a one shouldered shrug, keeping his eyes on the milk. “Fine.”

“Ahh, yes. Fine. That’s what we always say, isn’t it?” Castiel noted, a tiny smirk at the edge of his mouth.

Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the fondness spilling into it. “You’re as bad at that as the rest of us, these days.”

“Well, Dean, you are the one who taught me to lie,” Castiel responded with a small grin. 

Chuckling, Dean acquiesced. “I am...fine. I mean, I’m not—I’m still fuckin’ Santa, we still don’t have any way to get out of this other than delivering the presents, and no sleigh to deliver them with, so...yeah, everything is still fucked. But when has it ever not been, y’know?”

Castiel gave a wry nod, at that. “This one, for you at least, does seem quite personal.”

Dean dodged around that one like it was roadkill on the highway, shrugging and chugging back a mouthful of milk. He _hated_ how good it tasted.

Never one to be so easily brushed aside, though, Castiel gave Dean a moment before poking at the roadkill bear once again. “You don’t have the best history with your own body being used against you, or against your will.”

Sucking in a breath, Dean stared intently at the milk label. What the fuck were rbGH-treated cows, anyway? Sounded like something Sam would know. “Yeah,” he said after a minute, when he could finally trust his voice to be steady. “That’s true. But it’s not something talking about it can change.”

To that, Castiel gave an understanding nod. “I realize that my perspective on all of this is likely somewhat different to yours. But I have been doing my best to think through how you might feel...and I also remember what it was like when Lucifer was occupying my vessel. Even with my permission to be there, having him in my mind, I felt”—Castiel shook his head, shaking off memories Dean had never pried into—”powerless, and lost in a space that is usually familiar to me.”

Dean turned that one over in his mind for a minute, letting it settle, while he sipped his milk. After sticking the lid back on the heavy bottle, he leaned onto the table on his forearms, letting his eyes rest curiously on Castiel. “I guess I seem pretty dumb and petty to you, with the way I’m handling this.”

Castiel blinked, before leaning onto his arms, mirroring Dean’s position. “Not at all—why would you think that?”

“Well I mean, you’re—” Dean flapped a hand, encompassing the erstwhile Jimmy Novak, or at least the Chuck-provided facsimile of him that Cas rode around in these days. “—this is you, but it’s not really _you,_ is it? You’re…” Dean trailed off. He was no biblical scholar, even after all these years. He still didn’t even know where to begin explaining what Castiel was.

“Ahh,” Castiel said, nodding as he seemed to understand. He smiled calmly, the tiniest bit of a smirk there if Dean wasn’t mistaken, as he answered, “Yes. I am an endless, thousand-foot tall, incorporeal being composed of light, and fire, and power, with many faces that are legion, innumerable eyes that see things you cannot comprehend, and limbs humans have no names for. However, I am…” Castiel trailed off for a moment, smoothing down the front of his trench coat, strangely fond. “I am also, very much, _this._ Even in Heaven, I appear as this, what was once my vessel. I like it.”

 _I like it too,_ Dean thought, though he said nothing, far too busy with thoughts of giant flaming angels with a million eyes. _God, what a fucking idiot,_ he berated himself. _As if a fucking angel, a seraphim that makes you look like a goddamn ant, would ever have wanted to be kissed by you._

“Oh,” Dean said, instead.

“What I was trying to say,” Castiel began again, “is that I don’t think you’re petty, or dumb, in the way you are reacting. Even as an angel, I would be disconcerted if my form were to suddenly change against my will. We’re a lot more similar than we are different.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, sure. Tell that to your other heads, buddy.”

Castiel blinked, and very slowly, so much that it took Dean a second to notice, pulled back across the table. “Well, I—I suppose if you see me as something, uh, wholly different, to you, or—”

Dean’s chest clenched suddenly at the audible, brick-wall-to-the-face level of hurt in Castiel’s voice. Panic that he had no name for welled up inside his chest, and his hand darted out, gripping Castiel’s arm atop the table before it disappeared completely. “Hey—no. I’m sorry, Cas. That was—ignore that, just really, really forget I ever said it. I’m just in a weird place right now. Me and you, we...yeah, we are different. Sure. But I don’t ever see you as different. Just as my same old Cas, okay? Just Cas.”

Castiel had stiffened, but as Dean spoke he slowly relaxed again, and by the end there was a soft smile on his face. He was gazing at Dean in that open, _fond_ way again, the one that had been driving Dean crazy of late.

In his head, Dean ran back through what he’d said—and then he heard it. _Just as my same old Cas. ‘My’_ _Cas._ Dean gulped. He hadn’t meant...but did it matter what he meant, if it made Castiel look like that? It couldn’t possibly mean what Dean wanted, wished, hoped it could mean. But anything that made his angel look that soft was something he’d encourage.

His angel? When had he started thinking like that?

 _I could ask,_ Dean thought. _I could ask what he’s thinking when he looks at me like that._

For a moment, Dean almost did. He squeezed Castiel’s forearm just a tad, where his hand still rested on it, and almost—almost—slid his fingers down to entwine with Cas’s, like they had back in Des Moines. He almost opened his mouth, and voiced his stupid, unlikely wonderings outloud. Castiel wasn’t cruel. Dean knew that. Even if every bit of it was Dean’s imagination, Castiel would never mock him for it. 

But as Dean looked down at his hand resting on the beige trench coat that covered Castiel’s firm arm, all he could see was how thick his fingers were as they curled over the fabric. The way his knuckles seemed puffy, compared to how he remembered them—like he’d been in some kind of fist fight and his hand was swollen, except...this was just him now. 

Self-consciously, Dean pulled his hand back across the table. He wiggled it under his warm, jiggly thigh, and sat on it.

There was no way that Castiel was really looking at him like _that._ Not now. 

Thank Chuck—or Amara, or whoever the hell was pulling some strings these days—the air between Dean and Cas didn’t have time to get any weirder, because Castiel suddenly frowned, tilting his head to the side.

“Dean, can you hear…” Castiel trailed off, uncertain, his eyes flicking between Dean and the kitchen door. His posture stiffened, but differently this time—he really, really didn’t want to tell Dean what he was hearing. Dean could tell with just one look.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, shaking his head. “What now? What is it? Did the Pumpkin King start flying overhead? Did Cindy Loo Who pop by? Grinch? Krampus?”

“Ah, no,” Castiel said, almost regretfully, pushing up from his stool and moving toward the door.

Dean followed, already resigned. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. “Jack Frost?” Dean said, almost hopefully.

“No, Dean,” Castiel said, waving a hand in a shushing gesture. “I believe I hear bells. _Inside_ the bunker.”

Dean froze, icicle stiff, listening.

And yup...there it was. A tiny, erratic jingle. Several bells, all at once—at least several. Low and random, not musical at all, like small bells on a string, or harness, or decoration of some kind.

Dean let out a long sigh. “Alright. Whatever, at this point.”

Castiel turned to look at Dean, one eyebrow raised wordlessly as he clambered up to his feet from the table. Milk abandoned on the surface, Dean strode over to the low steps that led into the rest of the bunker.

“Sammy!” he hollered. “Jack!”

The two appeared with unsurprising speed, given the Christmassy chaos of their lives the past few days. 

“What’s the matter, Dean?” Jack asked instantly as he appeared in the doorway. Dean didn’t even get a chance to answer before his head tilted, though, eerily like Cas as always. “Oh—bells. Where did those come from?”

“We’re hearing bells now?” Sam said, approaching slower, rubbing his eyes as if he may have been taking a micro-snooze in the midst of his endless research. 

“Yup,” said Dean on a sigh, already resigned to whatever seasonal fuckery was about to take place. “If it’s more elves, I suggest baseball. You guys pitch ‘em, I’ll bat.”

“Dean,” Castiel chastised gently. “You know that isn’t the way forward, at this point. We just have to work out a way for you to complete the Ride.”

“You’re no fun,” Dean grumbled.

“Sounds like it’s coming from the garage,” Sam said, already slipping his hand gun out from under the back of his shirt. “Come on. Might as well get on with it.”

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

Reindeer.

Like, probably ten or eleven fucking _reindeer._

The garage should, by rights, have smelled like a packed stable in mid-July. But, instead, somehow, the entire place smelled like peppermints, warm cocoa, and fir trees. There was a constant low-level jingling that was already getting on Dean’s nerves. His last nerve. Because all the other nerves had definitely been shot in the past week, between the elves and the suit and the freaking carols.

It came from the bell-covered, red leather harnesses on the near-dozen fucking _reindeer._

“Holy shit,” Sam said, low and breathy and totally amazed.

Jack’s mouth hung open comically, like something from a cartoon. Dean knew he had about three seconds before Jack—oh, no, that was an overestimation. He lasted nowhere near three seconds. Jack bounded straight toward the nearest reindeer, making a horrifically delighted noise and reaching to pet his nose. 

Castiel, stood at Dean’s side in the doorway, looked entirely baffled and quite annoyed. It was almost amusing, how completely befuddled he looked. “Reindeer,” he said, dryly. “An entire sleigh’s worth of reindeer.”

“Convenient,” Dean said sourly. “We can open a petting zoo once Christmas is over.”

“Can we kee—” Jack began, stars in his eyes and hope in his voice.

“No,” Dean, Sam, and Castiel all answered at once.

Jack deflated like a sad, dollar store balloon. Well, great. Dean felt like crap again. No matter how truly devastating the nephil’s puppy-dog eyes could be, though, the bunker was no place for a pet.

Particularly not if ‘pet’ was a descriptor for an entire damn herd of surprisingly snorty, surprisingly tall, reindeer. The antlers came up almost to Sam’s head height, Dean marvelled. It would have been more impressive if, y’know, they hadn’t just materialized in the garage.

“Oh, no, uh-uh—” Dean snapped at one of the beasts, stepping toward it threateningly as it made to nose at a beautiful 1970 Thunderbird that the Men of Letters had stored. It was a gorgeous, rare sapphire blue and there was _no way_ Dean was polishing reindeer snot off that thing—he couldn’t even reach all the way over the hood, right then. “Back away from the vintage autos, Rudolph.”

“I, uh, don’t think that one is Rudolph,” Sam said cautiously. “Look.”

Sam was pointing at another reindeer to Dean’s left. He—wait, were they all “he”? Dean wasn’t certain. He was assuming antlers meant dude reindeer, but these weren’t regular reindeer, clearly. There was another obvious way to find out...but he didn’t really feel like scrote-checking a herd of magical creatures. _They_ , he decided mentally. If in doubt... _they_ ‘em all. The other reindeer, whatever gender they may be, was slightly shorter than the one who’d attempted to snotball the Thunderbird. It’s antlers came up to Dean’s shoulder height or thereabouts. As Dean studied it, the reindeer lifted his head.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Dean let out, letting every last bit of exasperation show in his tone. There it was, proud and bright, ready to guide the fucking sleigh tonight. “Rudolph. Son of a bitch—can you be ticketed for being drunk in charge of a sleigh? Technically no wheels, right? I need some damn bourbon.” 

The reindeer—Rudolph—gave Dean an impressively dirty look for a creature who couldn’t understand him, Dean thought.

“He understands you,” Castiel said, like the damn mind reader he sometimes seemed to be.

“Oh, it’s a he, then?” 

Castiel blinked. “Yes. They have antlers, Dean.”

“Okay, but like...magical…” Dean floundered, shrugging.

Castiel gave Dean a slightly odd look, before turning his attention back to the reindeer. “This one is Rudolph...we also have Blitzen, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet…” Castiel continued, naming and pointing out the whole flight crew. 

“How do you know, Cas?” Sam asked curiously. He was idly petting one of the reindeer on it’s flank— _he_ better not start to get any ideas about keeping one, Dean decided with a huff. 

“Oh, I can hear them talking...thinking, really, I suppose,” Castiel said. “You can’t?”

Sam and Dean both shook their heads. 

“Must be an angel thing, then,” Castiel said, shrugging. “At least one of us can, I suppose. I’ll act as a translator.”

Jack looked up from his reindeer petting, his eyes big and round and full of disappointment. “I—I can’t hear them either,” he said. “Not at all. Why can’t I hear them?”

Dean and Castiel exchanged a slightly awkward look before Castiel turned to Jack. “It’s likely,” he began carefully, “that when your grace was removed and you lost your powers, any chance you would have had at hearing them was...eliminated.”

“Oh,” Jack said. 

Dean had rarely heard one syllable carry so much dismay.

“Sorry, kid,” Sam said, grimacing.

Forlornly, Jack turned back to petting Blitzen.

The three adult men exchanged another series of long, awkward looks, before Castiel cleared his throat and went back to his reindeer translation.

“They tell me that they are here to pull your sleigh,” Castiel said, sounding puzzled. 

“Okay, but our whole problem is that I don’t _have_ a fucking sleigh,” Dean grumbled, gritting his teeth. “All the goddamn ‘Forces of Christmas’ have provided is a flying menagerie, not a way of delivering presents. Fuck lotta use that is.”

The reindeer to Dean’s left gave him a spectacular side-eye. It was almost majestic, the amount of derision the expressionless creature squeezed into that one, derogatory glance. Lovely. Even the reindeer thought Dean was a holly-jolly moron.

To Dean’s left, having drifted off to scratch Dancer between the antlers, Sam drew in a sharp gasp.

“Sam?” Dean asked warily.

Sam didn’t answer. Instead, he turned, flattening his body out and spreading his arms guiltily, as if he was trying to prevent Dean from looking past him and seeing whatever had elicited that response. Oh, no. That couldn’t be good.

“Sam?” Dean asked again, more firmly.

“N-nothing,” Sam said sharply, turning back to his reindeer, with a slightly forced, “Who’s a pretty boy, then?”

“Oh,” Castiel said, his head tilted as he looked at Dancer, before turning back to Dean. “Seems I was wrong about the antlers,” he admitted. “Magical creatures, I should have known the norm was unlikely. Dancer identifies as a female reindeer.”

“Sure,” Dean said, much more focused on Sam’s really poor attempt at distracting him from whatever was— _oh-my-fucking-god-of-all-the-unholy-bastard-fucking-damn—_

Deans brain trailed off into white static.

“Dean?” Castiel said immediately, his brows pulled together in concern. He followed Dean’s eyeline, looking past Sam, and Dean heard him gasp softly. “Oh dear,” he said.

“OH DEAR!” Dean burst out, near hysterical. “That’s my BABY! Look what they DID TO HER!”

Jack’s head snapped up from his slightly-miserable reindeer petting at Dean’s outburst, and he, too, followed the staring to the source.

Parked, innocently, without hurting a soul, in the middle of the garage...was Baby. Or had been. 

“She’s got no wheels,” Dean squeaked.

“Dean,” Cas said gently, stepping up to his side.

“It’s a sleigh,” Dean barrelled on, feeling genuine tears pricking at the back of his eyeballs.

“Yes, Dean,’ Castiel agreed, grimacing slightly. “Perhaps if—”

“Those are runners! Not wheels!”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel tried. 

“A sleigh!”

“I realize that this is—”

“A FUCKING SLEIGH!”

“Dean, take a breath and—”

“I DON’T WANT TO TAKE A BREATH, CASTIEL!”

A hand came to Dean’s shoulder, but what the hell Cas thought he could do with a hand was anyone’s guess.

“My Baby!” Dean wailed. “Look what those unholy elven abominations did to you!”

Dean’s precious, beloved, 1967 Chevrolet Impala in classic black, polished and primed and cared for like a pet or adored child, had been transformed. Where there had once been lovingly shined rims and the best tires, there were long, shiny silver skis that curled up above her hood. There was an entire addition behind her back seat—her back seat! Dean had such beautiful memories of that back seat! (And he’d definitely daydreamed about making some new memories in that back seat, too, particularly of late.) Instead of the well-maintained leather bench-back, there was a solid, wooden board that framed a big, open space that Dean could only assume was where the magical sacks of presents would sit. It was painted a sleek black to match the Impala’s coloring, but Dean could hardly stop to appreciate that minor detail when Baby had _bells._

BELLS.

FUCKING BELLS!

“Baby jingles,” Dean said weakly. He found himself leaning involuntarily against the wall of the garage—or maybe that was Castiel leading him there, so he didn’t topple onto his ass. 

Slithering down the wall, Dean slumped onto the floor, his knees pulled up as he just stared at what had become of his darling car. His sweetheart, his lady-love, his true partner. RUINED.

“I’m sure that Baby will transform back to herself when The Ride is over, Dean,” Castiel comforted quietly, sitting down beside him and patting his arm.

Sam and Jack, both quiet and wide-eyed, were slowly circling the Impala, taking in the details.

“Hey,” Sam said, suppressing a chuckle as he pointed at her licence plate. “Look! SLEIGH-PALA!”

“Fuck you, Sam.” 

“I think it’s fun,” Jack said, beaming chirpily once more. “The coolest sleigh to ever do Christmas.”

Dean let out a pained squeak. “You horrible child.”

“Well, it’s a very _special_ car,” Castiel suddenly said, looking at one of the reindeers. “It hurts Dean’s feelings to have her disrespected.”

Dean just ignored him, letting him carry on his Disney impression as he chattered away to the encroaching herd. They seemed to all be approaching Castiel and Dean, snuffling around, as if wondering why Santa was having a mental breakdown on the garage floor, rather than...whatever the fuck it was they were expecting him to be doing.

“I’m not getting in that thing,” Dean announced, mostly to himself.

Sam and Jack ignored him, cooing over the Impala’s supposed “upgrades”. Dean could think of plenty of descriptors for them, “upgrades”, however, was not one.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel said again, pressed up to Dean’s side. 

Dean ducked his head down to his knees, curling in and not even wanting to look at Baby any more. The position wasn’t the comfiest, he had to have his legs apart slightly to pull his knees up because his stomach got in the way, and _goddamn_ that chub rub he had going on, Jesus. Dean pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, and concentrated on breathing. 

Minutes passed—Dean guessed, he wasn’t really sure—and an arm came around Dean’s shoulders, tugging him in sideways. 

Dean looked up, blinking, and found that the garage had cleared out. Sam and Jack were gone, and the reindeer were huddled at the other end of the room, heads down in a circle like gossiping old women. 

“They’re giving you a minute,” Castiel said quietly.

“Not sure a _minute_ is gonna do much here, Cas,” Dean complained. He did, however, let himself be tugged into Castiel’s side. Let Castiel pull him into his chest, let himself focus on the feel of Castiel’s jaw as he pressed his head cautiously into Dean’s crown, holding and comforting Dean as he shook—fuck, when had he started shaking?—on the garage floor. 

“Sam and Jack have gone to get coats and boots and weapons, before we head out.”

“I’m not getting in that thing.”

“Dean,” Castiel reprimanded softly.

Dean pulled back a little, looking up at Cas, just desperately wishing someone could _understand._ “Baby was all I had left, Cas. Like...she was the only piece of me untouched by this bullshit.”

Castiel just looked back at him, letting Dean talk. Wise angel, that one.

“My entire body is just... _alien_ to me, right now, Cas. I literally don’t recognize myself. I look in mirrors—or sometimes just walk past a really unfortunately placed, reflective pot hanging in the kitchen—and my first instinct is to go for my gun. Because there is someone else there. Someone I don’t recognize.”

Brow creasing, Castiel squeezed around Dean’s shoulders gently. “I understand why you’re upset, Dean,” he said.

“If I was just big,” Dean continued, “if I had just gained some weight...sure, there’d be an adjustment period. But that’d be okay, if it was natural. If it wasn’t done _to_ me. I could still be me. But like this...fuck, I can’t even choose what clothes to wear, I’m stuck in this thing.” Dean reached up, plucking angrily at the furry neckline of his obscenely red Santa suit. 

Dean’s breathing was ratcheting up by notches once more, passing into panic attack territory. His palms were sweating, his head was spinning, he— 

With a smile that Dean simply did not deserve, Castiel softly knocked Dean’s hands away from the fabric, smoothing out the neckline. “Well, I think you look very handsome,” Castiel said, stopping all of Dean’s thoughts in their tracks. 

Dean was pretty sure, even without a mirror (because he’d covered every one of those in the bunker, after almost putting a bullet through the one in the bathroom last time he’d gone to deposit his cookies) that he was bright, bright red. He probably matched the fucking suit.

“Alright!” Sam announced, the garage door slamming open without fanfare. “We’re ready to head out—let’s get these reindeer...uh, hitched up? Or whatever you do to reindeer?”

Next to him, Jack shrugged. “I suppose we’ll have to ask the reindeer.”

“I said I’m not getting in,” Dean pointed out, gritting his teeth.

“Dean—”

“No. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. Fuck that sleigh, and fuck all of you!”

Jack frowned at him. Bad words, bad Dean. “It’s only for—”

“I don’t care, kid. I am not getting in that sleigh. Period.”

Sam and Castiel shared an uncomfortable, shifty look. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho, ho, ho, oh here they go...
> 
> No way are Sam and Cas going to let Dean miss The Ride and turn into whatever creepy Christmas fuckery Sam's research turned up...
> 
> The next chapter is coming to you curtesy of jscribbles, and it will be arriving down your chimney really, really soon!
> 
> What was your favorite moment, in this chapter? My favorite was Sam trying to hide the sleigh-pala from Dean in the first instance, to spare his brothers feelings...and Cas comforting Dean after he was tossing his cookies.
> 
> Thanks for reading, folks!
> 
> \- Mal


	6. Santa’s Baby, Hurry Down (but not up) The Chimney Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HO HO HOOOOO, MEEEERRY AFTER-BOXING-DAY!
> 
> Two chapters in one day, you lucky ducks!
> 
> Jscribbles back with some holiday cheer (which may or may not be inspired by some rum and coke, who even knows?!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter! Dean's about to deliver some presents, have a couple panic attacks, and nearly get eaten alive by a chocolate lab.
> 
> ENJOY!

“Dean, get in the sleigh.”

“No.”

“Dean,” Cas warned, his hands on his hips, a worried frown on his lips.

Beside Cas, Sam’s mouth was doing that annoyed little wiggle. “Dean, get in the sleigh.”

“No!” Dean snapped petulantly, his eyes shadowed and angry as he started between their legs at the bastardized Impala. He would _not_ be getting in that abomination. He would sit on the floor, back against the wall, arms around his legs until Christmas passed, until his hair turned sandy, and the Impala got her wheels back, and these fucking elk got the fuck outta his garage—

“Dean!” Sam barked, uncrossing his arms with a snap. “Do you wanna turn into an evil Krampus-thing?! Get in the sleigh, goddamn it!”

Dean felt sweat gather at the base of his spine. He was overheating in this stupid jacket. Why was it so thick? What kind of masochistic motherfucker was Santa, wearing all these layers inside? 

“It’s hot in here,” Dean wheezed, feeling his eyes begin to water as he stared at the rails that glimmered where Baby’s tires used to be. “Isn’t anyone else hot?”

“For the love of—” Sam bent over and grabbed Dean by the arm, trying to yank him to his feet.

Jarred out of his ruminating anger, Dean’s feet scuttled against the floor and he tried to take repossession of his arm, grunting against Sam’s efforts. “No! W-We don’t even know when I’m supposed to get in this thing. Jesus fuck, give me some goddamn time to grieve—”

To his acute horror, hot feelings of betrayal spiking in his chest, Cas leaned down and took Dean’s other arm, easily lifting him to his feet--a move that Dean refused to think was so hot. So fucking hot.

“The reindeers say now,” Castiel rumbled, leading Dean by his arm and a strong, flat hand on his back. Dean desperately hoped Cas didn’t feel how damn sweaty he was. 

“Now?” Dean wheezed, digging his heels into the cement floor, still struggling to walk backwards and pull himself out of Sam and Cas’ grasp. 

“Dancer says now,” Castiel said flatly, though Dean noticed him looking a tad bit guilty, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling a bit. 

“Well, fuck Dancer!” Dean yelped, but noticed the reindeer in question jerk her head at him and grunt, her nostrils trembling and her hoof clapping down onto the cement, jingling the bells adorning her reins. “What the fuck does _she_ even know?”

Dancer bared her teeth at Dean as he was shoved past her towards the sleigh-pala.

“Dean,” Cas grunted, as Dean accidentally swung his elbow back into Cas’ ribs, “Dancer is the oldest reindeer of them all, s-she’s an _elder—”_ Cas had to pause to un-pry Deans’ fingers from around the leg of a workstation. “And she said they appeared to begin The Ride. As a matter of fact, she’s adamant that you’re late.”

“Oh, come on!” Dean squeaked, trying to accidentally step on Sam’s feet, though his brother was swift and just turned his back to the Impala, yanking Dean while making full, narrow-eyed contact. “I can travel the world in a blink of an eye, remember? Remember the North Pole shenanigans? _God, Sam, quit tugging on my arm like that, you’re gonna rip it out of it’s damn socket_!”

They were approaching Baby, and Sam was climbing in, trying to haul Dean up, too, though at this point, Dean decided to use his weight to his advantage, and went limp on them. 

“Oh, _Dean,_ for fuck’s—”

“75 million houses, 2.3 billion children, a-and—” Even Cas was running out of breath, and patience, it seemed. “—122 million miles. We only have—Sam, get his other arm—twenty-three hours and thirty-six minutes to—” Cas was back to back with Dean, trying to shove him up into the sleigh like he was lifting a couch up a set of stairs— “get. These. Presents. _Delivered before you turn into KRAMPUS_ — _ahh!”_

Dean went hurtling into the sleigh, nearly crushing Sam, who screamed like a banshee and jumped into the front seat to avoid any broken bones. 

Dean scrambled to his feet, looking panicked as he looked around the sleigh. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, it was happening. He was dressed like Santa, he had a beard and a gut like Santa, he was in a motherfucking sleigh, led by _a red-nosed reindeer_ —

“Ah hah!” Dean cried out in glee, his red coat flapping around his waist, his face splitting into a triumphant grin. He pointed at the back seat, where Jack was—

Dean did a double-take at Jack, who was sucking on a candy cane and sitting calmly in the backseat, his eyes twinkling with joy, his lips spread into a dopey smile.

“When the fuck did you get back there?” Dean asked, perplexed. 

Jack shrugged, the lights on his Christmas sweater blinking. “I’ve been here the entire time. I’m waiting.”

“Don’t say ‘fuck’ in front of our son,” Cas grumbled, grasping the side of the sleigh to haul himself in, his cheeks red, and sounding out of breath.

Dean blinked, following Cas as he took a seat on the opposite end of the bench from Sam. “Our…”

“What were you ah-hah-ing about?” Sam snapped, also red in the face and a bit sweaty looking.

While he wanted to sit in the moment where Cas acknowledged they had a kid together, Dean had more important priorities, like trying to get out of delivering presents to 75 million houses. 

“Look,” Dean said, gesturing past Jack at the basin near the back of the sleigh, big and empty. “No presents! No presents, no ride. No ride, no Santa!”

Cas scowled at the reindeer, his arms crossed over his chest, seeming to shift a bit in the seat like he was settling in. “The presents will materialize.”

“Says who?” Dean snapped.

Cas made a vague hand gesture at the eleven Bambi’s. “Them. All of them.”

Dean turned on his heel and glared at the reindeer. “Well, doesn’t matter, does it? I don’t even know how to drive this thing.”

Cas made a little gasping noise, drawing everyone’s attention. Dean watched his blue eyes widen and then he grinned—that big, lovely, gummy grin from the selfie at the skating rink. 

“What?” Dean asked, fighting the flutter of his heart, trying to sound annoyed, though it was difficult when Cas looked so in _awe_. He watched the angel run his hands over the edge of the sleigh and over the black velvet seat, a small laugh escaping his dry lips.

Cas looked up and breathed, “She says you just drive as usual.”

“She?” Dean asked, raising a brow.

Sam’s jaw dropped.

“Baby!” Jack whooped, bouncing in the seat behind them, running his sticky candy fingers all over the seat. “She’s speaking to Castiel, isn’t she?”

Well.

That did it.

If Dean wasn’t able to admit to himself he had fallen in love with Castiel, now he could. If Baby spoke to him, then there was really no one else on this earth for Dean but Cas.

“Baby can speak?” Dean choked out. “She’s...alive?”

“She is now,” Castiel said with the same breathy tone as before, entirely enraptured by the sleigh, his eyes staring at her, taking in the dashboard and her flashing lights, his hands petting the seat like a cat. “She says, ‘Just drive, D.’”

Everyone stared at him.

This was it. It was happening. And yes, it was happening because Dean didn’t want to turn into a blood-thirsty Grinch vampire werewolf thing, but also because...well, Baby would take care of him. And Sam. And Cas. 

His family had his back. (And Cas was still smiling, all inspired and doe-eyed at the sleigh, so that certainly helped.)

Turning around slowly, facing the front of his Sleigh-pala, Dean gulped and sat back in between Cas and Sam, a bit squished, but feeling somewhat comforted by having his brother and his guardian angel at his sides.

The reindeer began to shift, clapping their hooves against the floor, the noise filling the bunker. As Dean rested his shaky hands on the steering wheel—the one thing that looked familiar—the buttons in the sleigh lit up as if Baby was excited.

“Here goes nothing?” Dean breathed. He looked over at Cas, who was smiling at him, white shining teeth peeking out shyly. 

Cas nodded, and Dean felt his hand sneak under Dean’s coat where it puddled over his thighs, and he gave Dean’s leg an encouraging squeeze.

“You can do this,” Castiel whispered softly, nodding his head almost imperceptibly. His warm hand was still resting on Dean’s leg.

He could do this. He could.

“Okay,” Dean breathed, and he reached under the wheel, gripping his magically-materialized keys in the ignition.

 _Ho, ho, ho, bitches,_ he thought, and he turned the keys.

***

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!” 

“STOP SCREAMING!” Sam bellowed, his brown hair whipping around his face, his own skin drained of colour, his lips parted to reveal gritted teeth. His hands were white around the edge of the sleigh.

“AAAAHHHHH!”

Castiel’s hands were tight around the side of the sleigh as well, and he looked a bit green for a dude who wasn't supposed to feel nausea. “You have to stop screaming, Dean!” Cas yelled over the jingling of the reindeer and the roar of the sleigh-pala.

“I WANNA GO HOME!” Dean wailed, his hands shaking around the steering wheel as the fucking sleigh wobbled around in the air, soaring through the sky and weaving up and down through the clouds. “FUCK THIS, I ACCEPT MY FATE AS KRAMPUS—”

“THE IMPALA SAYS GO EASY ON THE GAS, MORON!” Cas roared, then added with a bit less fervour, “Her words, not mine!”

Dean wasn’t sure if the shaking was turbulence or a world-shattering panic attack. “TELL HER TO GO FUCK HERS—”

“This is _so much fun!”_ Jack cheered from the back, his laughter echoing through the clouds, his hair wet from the condensation, but his cheeks rosy with delight. He was leaning over the side of the sleigh, laughing carelessly, waving his candy cane around. “Look! You can see our house from here! The water treatment plant looks so small!”

“GET BACK IN THE FUCKING SLEIGH, JACK OR I WILL TURN THIS SLEIGH AROUND!” Dean screamed. Oh, god. They were gonna die. He had no idea how to drive something that had no road under it. Why couldn’t a pilot have killed Santa Claus instead?

“We rushed into this,” he went on, shaking his head, his beard flying back, whipping in the wind as the sleigh picked up velocity. “We should’ve a-a-asked for a m-manual or someth--AHHHH!”

This time, everyone else joined him in shrieking, though Jack’s shriek turned into a shrill cackle of glee as the Sleigh-pala made a nosedive. Dean had no control over it, he had no idea what he’d done wrong, but he was very suddenly wishing that if they crashed, that at least everyone else would live, even if he died. Fuck, he hadn’t ever told Cas how he felt! He hadn’t written a will! Who would get the Impala? His cassettes?! His jacket, that he desperately wanted to give Jack now—

As the sleigh broke through thick clouds, catapulting towards a glittering neighbourhood, the houses tinkling at them in the dead of night, the reindeer looked at each other, and Dean could’ve sworn they smirked. He saw Rudolph’s nose flash brightly, shining a light on one particular house, creating a red dot, before Baby roared towards it, much like cat zoning in on a laser pointer.

“WE’RE GONNA CRASH!” Sam shrieked, holding his body against the side of the sleigh, curled and braced for impact. 

Cas sucked in a harsh gasp, too, and turned in his seat, grabbing at Dean’s coat with a grip so strong Dean thought that Cas was about to rip off the fucking suit. Being free of the garment was a lovely idea, but he’d rather not be naked when the paramedics found his mangled, smushed corpse at the crash site among splinters of wood and crushed metal, and bits and pieces of reindeer.

“Relax, feathers!” Dean barked, spitting beard hair out of his mouth and trying to stamp on the brakes which seemed to have little to no effect. “You had fuckin’ wings for fuck’s sake, so _relax! ‘Cause you’re freakin’ me the fuck out!”_

Cas turned his face away, locks of his hair blowing around and tickling Dean’s face. “If it has escaped your notice, Dean, I haven’t had wings _for years!_ I cannot fly, I can’t brake, I can’t do anything but sit here and wait for you and your blasted contraption to rip my vessel to pieces in this cra—aaahhhhhhh—sh!”

They were doomed. The small, targeted house was no longer small, and they were rumbling towards it at lightspeed, the world around them nothing but a terrifying blur. The house was getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger, and…

Releasing the wheel, Dean turned at the hip and threw his arms around Cas, who clung back, and their heads curled in towards each other. “Cas! Cas, I always—”

_BOOM!_

_THUD!_

_Jingle! Jingle! Jingle!_

They were dead.

They had to be dead. Freed from this life of pain, and misery. Ascended to Heaven where they felt okay, and in one piece. Limbs still attached. Arms of an angel circling him…

“YAY!” Jack exclaimed, bouncing in the seat behind them, the bench creaking. “We did it! HOW COOL WAS THAT!?”

Sam’s long, lanky legs thumped out in front of him, and he slid down the bench his head thudding against the back. “Oh my god,” Sam choked out. “We’re alive.”

Dean and Cas raised their heads and stared at each other. 

Immediately, they jerked back, breaking the embrace. Cas jolted out of his seat and stumbled out from the sleigh onto the roof of their first house, where he stood bent over, his hands on his knees.

“If you throw up,” Dean chattered through his teeth, pointing at Cas, “I-I’m gonna be so pissed. _You_ w-were the one who wanted me to do this.”

Cas didn’t lift his head, but he raised a hand, pointing a finger at Dean. “I-I’ll be fine. Angels don’t get sick.”

Sam was still staring at the stars, and he groaned, rubbing at his own stomach. “Why do I feel like Cas is about to be the first angel to ever puke?”

Recalling Cas telling Dean that his friend Hannah had once gotten car sick, Dean jumped into action, knowing the only way to steady his shaking legs was to be himself, to take care of someone else.

“Jack,” Dean said over his shoulder, taking deep, steadying breaths. “Check the back. See if there’s a bag.”

Jack threw his candy cane over his shoulder, out of the sleigh, and nodded, bouncing onto his knees in the back seat. He folded over it and rustled around in the trunk-box-thing.

“There’s a bag back here!”

“Pass it upfront before Cas tosses his angel cookies on these poor sap’s roof.”

Throwing his blue tie over his shoulder, Cas didn’t even try to dispute. He was just breathing hard at the ground, giving his head a shake, damp hair wiggling at his forehead.

Jack grunted and shifted around, grappling with something. Dean managed to stand and he said sternly, “Come on, hurry up. Cas is—oh...shit.”

Looking triumphant and exhilarated, Jack was standing with a huge red bag in his hands. Its bottom was heavy and round with, you guessed it, presents.

“Not the bag I was looking for,” Dean breathed, feeling faint.

Out on the roof, Cas threw up pitifully into the snow.

“Cas,” Sam called out weakly, his face still drained. “You okay, bud?”

Cas coughed wetly and raised a hand, his fingers curled into an ‘ok’ gesture.

“He’s fine,” Dean growled and jumped out of the sleigh, though he held onto the side as he walked towards the back, still feeling a bit wobbly. “Let’s see the bag, kid.”

Unbothered by the slant of the roof, Jack jumped down into the snow and passed Dean the heavy bag. Doe-eyed, he breathed, “Santa’s first gifts of Christmas.”

Dean snatched the bag from him and glared. “Cut it out with the Santa stuff, or you’re walkin’ home from here.”

Unbothered, Jack just shrugged and grinned, before he trudged across the roof in search of his abandoned candy cane in the snow.

Having obviously gotten a hold of his sea legs, Cas walked back towards the sleigh, jerking his tie back towards his front, smoothing it down his chest and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He looked unimpressed, and a bit sweaty, but Dean would forgive him. He did _kind of_ hurtle them through the sky, drive like a fuckin’ maniac, and then mock the angel for not having his wings. Cas probably had a _bit_ more control over his flight back in the day.

“The presents materialized,” Castiel pointed out, his voice raspier than usual.

Dean scowled. “Thanks, tips.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, mouthing ‘tips?’ in confusion as Sam joined them, now on his feet now, too, jumping off the sleigh.

“So,” Dean asked, looking down at the bag in his hands, feeling nervousness lump in his throat and unsettle his stomach. “What...do I do now?”

“NEEEHHH!” Rudolph said, his nose flashing, a red dot shining on the chimney that jutted out from the snow fifteen feet away.

Dean’s heart sunk, falling out of his ass.

“Rudolph says you’re to enter through the chimney,” Cas said flatly.

Dean turned to Cas slowly, feeling murderous. 

Sam, however, laughed. “Hah! Cas is like that chick in Galaxy Quest that repeats everything the computer says.”

Dean turned his murderous glare on Sam, and Cas threw his hands up, before crossing them over his chest and rubbing at his eyes with one hand, so clearly done with them.

“Yeah,” Dean said simply, “I’m not fuckin’ doin’ that.”

“Dean—”

“I’ll break in.”

“No, Dean—”

“I’ll pick a lock. Get in through a window.”

“As if, dude. Listen—”

“I’ll fuckin’ knock on a door and ask nicely, but I’m not fuckin’ going down a chimney! _Do you see how fucking big I am?!”_

“Neh,” Dancer sighed, clicking her hooves boredly on the roof.

“Yeah, well,” Dean snapped, giving her the finger, “screw you, too.”

Cas was still rubbing at his face. “She says you’ll be fine. The magic of Christmas will ease you down the chimney.”

Dean leaned in and hissed, “Let’s shove you down first, Cas, and see how you like—”

The entire quaint little neighbourhood must’ve woken up as Dean hollered and shrieked. One pissed off angel and Dean’s moose of a brother both grabbed him and began dragging him towards the chimney.

“We did not—” Sam growled, panting as Dean struggled. “—nearly die flying here for you to pussy out, Dean. Where are your balls?!”

“UP IN MY BODY!” Dean yelped, his feet sliding over the snow, slipping on the slanted roof. “Let me go, you little punk, I’m the older brother—”

“I may not have wings,” Cas said, ducking down and grabbing one of Dean’s feet, sweeping him clear off the ground, “but I have my strength, so don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Dean! Please!”

The bag of presents dragged through the snow as Dean lost all footing, Sam taking his other foot into the air, his second hand grasped in Dean’s coat. “Come. On. Dean.”

“No, no, no, nonononono—”

With a synchronized grunt, Cas and Sam lifted Dean’s feet onto the chimney, though he pushed off of them, trying to wriggle free, and trying to smack Cas with the bag even though he knew this was a losing fight.

“One, two—” Cas counted.

“Three!” Sam finished, and they shoved Dean onto the ledge of the chimney.

The second his ass hit the ledge and his feet slipped into the chimney, Dean felt his entire body tingle. He hardly had a second to register it, before he felt the sensation of suction and his breath was pulled out of him. He probably gasped, as that was the usual sensation in his chest, but he heard nothing but a _wooooosh!_

The landing was not nice. The Spirits of Christmas must’ve been having a good laugh at his expense because Dean’s feet hit the mantle, and his legs gave out. 

Rolling onto plush carpet, Dean landed in a sprawled mess, the back of his head hitting the floor.

“Fuck,” he wheezed, stars in his eyes for a second, feeling wobbly and light-headed. As he waited for the sensation to pass, and for his body to feel normal again, Dean stared at the popcorn ceiling, feeling a bit high and out of it.

He was yanked out of his funk by the ticking of a grandfather clock and the delicious aroma of cookies and milk. Pulling himself up into a seated position, Dean looked around.

The room was a regular old living room. Plushy black couches, with worn, woven cushions in a rusty orange and yellow. His ass was sat on a fluffy carpet adorned in whirling patterns of brown and mustard. He’d narrowly avoided crashing into a glass coffee table that had scrunched up napkins and a few children’s toys that looked like they’d been left over from Christmas eve.

In front of him, between his spread legs and snowy boots, was a Christmas tree, full and twinkling in the dark room. The tinsel shimmered as the lights twined around the tree flickered in a consistent rhythm, hues of red, yellow, and blue flashing on a rotation.

Under the tree were a few presents, some in bags stuffed in sparkly tissue, and some wrapped in silver paper and topped with bows. But Dean knew that there was room for more.

He glanced down at the sooty bag in his hands and sighed. He was here. He may as well do his job.

Grunting as he got to his feet, Dean looked around and spotted two stockings hung over the fireplace he’d tumbled out of, unsure of how he was gonna know what went in which one. But as soon as he walked up to the red-bricked mantle, he saw picture frames tucked between bundles of holly and pine cones.

A little girl with deep, chocolatey skin and dark, poofy curls grinned at him from the picture, her two front teeth missing. She wore a red dress the puffed out around her tiny legs, only her feet in cute little black shoes poking from the bottom.

The back of his head seemed to tingle and then Dean found himself whispering, not able to control it; “Janey. Eight. Australia.”

Huh. They were in Australia… How the fuck had they gotten to Australia in like four seconds, Jack had _just_ pointed out the water plant—

_Dear Santa,_

_I have been a good girl this year! Mama said if I got good grades in school, I could get a fire truck for Christmas. But a big one, big like my daddy’s shoes! Not small like Joe’s at school, ‘cause our dog Tiger will bury it in the yard like he did with my Barbie from last year._

_It’s okay about my dolly because her arm fell off anyway and had jam on her dress._

_But I did really good this year. Got an A in math and helped my brother put on his shoes every day to help mama._

_I love you, Santa! I left cookies that mama made just for you on the table because it’s up high so Tiger won’t eat them._

_Janey_

_P.S My papa wrote my letter because I can’t spell so good yet. I love you! I love you!_

Dean smiled at Janey’s picture.

He glanced over at the next picture, one of a small boy, no older than four. He was small, sitting on some mall Santa’s lap, looking overjoyed. Dean was immediately reminded of Jack.

_Dear Santa,_

_I want a firetruck so I can play with my sister. She’s good at playing trucks. Please, can I have a truck? My papa is writing my letter and he says I have to always say please. Sometimes I’m not too good at saying please, but I’m learning, and I’ve gotten much better at saying full sentences this year._

_My papa and mama put my alphabets on the fridge so you can see how good I got this year._

_PLEASE give me a truck or maybe a school bus. A yellow one with doors that open. I like to shove army mans in there._

_And please give my sister a new barbie. I got jam on her old one._

_I love you!!_

_Zach_

_P.S Please bring me a doll too, so I can get jam on my own things._

“Zach,” Dean murmured, tapping on the picture frame. “I got you, my little dude.”

Dean shoved his hand in the bag and—

Yup, a truck. No, two of them. 

And a barbie. Two of them.

He set the wrapped gifts under the tree and smirked, standing back to admire his handiwork. Okay...it _kinda_ felt cool to grant Christmas wishes to awesome little kids…

Dean paused, weighing the bag in his hands. He scowled down at the bag and reached down again, wrapping his fingers around a firm box. Tugging it out, he turned the wrapped gift in his hand and immediately knew what it was.

_Dear Santa,_

_Papa here. These kids are driving us nuts. Have mercy._

_Cheers,_

_Tired Parents_

“Hah,” Dean chuckled, and he set down the bottle of whiskey for mama and papa. He’d felt the love in that poor dad’s words, and he inherently knew those parents were on the Nice List, but he felt the exhaustion. Dean took another look around at the napkins on the table, and the toys everywhere, and he took note of the crayons all over one of the walls.

He wondered if Jack was old enough to know not to draw on the walls… 

Maybe they’d have to have a brief chat about that.

After Dean took a second to shove a cookie in his mouth and wash it down with milk—like, fuck, it was there, so why not?—he peered around.

With the bag empty, Dean tapped his fingers on his legs. “Oooookie,” he muttered, glancing at the fireplace. “How the fuck do I get out now?”

***

Castiel and Sam sat in the sleigh and watched Jack make snow angels in the snow atop the roof.

“It’s fuckin’ cold,” Sam whispered, condensation curling in front of his mouth.

Cas nodded, his arms over his chest. “You should’ve brought a jacket.”

Sam scowled, eyes darting over at the angel. “Yeah, our take off was kind abrupt, Cas. I didn’t really have a shitload of time to think about insulation.”

Cas sighed, but shifted forward on the seat. Sam watched him pull a folded piece of paper from his pocket to tuck between his legs, and then shrug off his trenchcoat. “Here, take my coat.”

Sam raised a hand and shook his head. “It’s fine, Cas. No offence, but you’re kinda tiny compared to me—”

Blinking, Cas actually looked offended, leaning away. “I’m the size of your Chrysler building, I have numerous faces, and am made of—”

“Fire and light and blah-blah-blah,” Sam said. “We know.”

Castiel shrugged on his coat again, and murmured, “Fine. Then freeze.”

The two sat in silence, though Sam snorted when Jack went still in his snow angel and smiled up at the sky, sucking on the last of his candy cane.

“He’s cute,” Sam said quietly. “It’s kinda nice to have a kid around during Christmas, to, y’know, see how happy it makes him.”

“Yes,” Cas agreed, his face softening. “He radiates pure joy. It’s inspiring to see, especially when most of our lives are turmoil and unrest.”

Sam glanced at him and nudged Cas, forcing the angel to look over. With a small shrug, Sam said, “Glad you’ve been around more lately, Cas. I’ve...been meaning to say something but with Dean’s, uh, issue, it’s been a little weird at the bunker. But Jack’s a lot happier when you’re around, and I appreciate your help with the research, and…” Sam stared at the chimney, then added, quieter, “You kinda do wonders for Dean’s mood. I’m his brother and I’ve been with him forever, but no one really can cheer him up like you do.”

Cas was still staring at Sam, he could feel it. Snow began to fall, softly at first, then a bit heavier. 

“I also seem to upset him like no one else,” Cas added, a light tinge of amusement in his voice. 

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, well…that’s ‘cause you mean a lot to him. He gets really scared when you’re hurt, or put yourself in danger. I think...having you around has really helped him relax.”

Cas smiled down at his lap, and Sam watched him fiddle with the piece of paper in his hands. Curious about what was written on there, especially since Cas had gone through the trouble of taking it out of his jacket before offering the jacket to Sam, Sam was about to ask what it was, but then, Cas looked up and shook snow from his hair as he stood.

“Where you going?” Sam asked, turning as Cas walked towards the back of the sleigh.

Cas didn’t answer immediately, but he tipped over the edge of the sleigh, into the back, having to stand on tip-toes. Moments later, he unfolded himself from the back and pulled a blanket up, waving it in the air.

“I thought I might find this here,” he said, smirking. “I read in _De Occulta Philosophia a Bruma Noctem_ that the sleigh contains magical properties. It’s how it rides; it feels the intention of those within it.”

Sam released a bark of laughter. “So, it was all turbulent like that because Dean’s a panicking lunatic?”

“Bingo,” Castiel said with a small flashed smile. “Here. Stay warm…”

Cas began to walk back, but then did a double-take into the back of the sleigh, backtracking and pausing.

“What?” Sam asked, noticing Cas’ eyes go pinched in confusion.

Cas reached in and tugged a bit, grunting. In his hand, he held a ladder—a twinkling, fluffy ladder made of tinsel. 

They exchanged looks. 

“What the…” Sam watched Cas walk back and back and back… 

Cas was nearly at the edge of the roof when the stiff tinsel ladder’s last step thumped down onto the snowy shingles.

“A ladder,” Cas said, obviously. He paused to throw the blanket at Sam, and then asked, “Did you wish for a ladder?”

Sam caught the blanket and stared in absolute confusion. “No, I didn’t—”

“Heeeeeellooooo?”

Sam groaned and Cas tipped his head back towards the sky.

Dean called up again. “Heeeeeello? A little help here?”

Jack sat up abruptly and whispered, “I can hear Dean’s voice in my head!”

“That’s not in your head, Jack,” Sam snapped, jumping out of the sleigh and sliding down the roof to join Cas as he peered over the edge of the rain gutter.

Dean stood on the walkway that cut through the snowy front lawn, grinning and waving.

“Hi! Hello,” Dean yelled. “Help a Santa out here?”

“Neh,” Prancer grunted.

Cas turned from the reindeer back to Dean. “Prancer says you’re supposed to go back up the chimney, Dean.”

“Fuck that,” Dean said loudly, shrugging, the empty bag in his head dragging in the snow. “Throw me a ladder or something.”

Sam and Cas exchanged looks and sighed. 

“I guess we know who ordered the ladder,” Sam muttered, before he shuffled over and helped Cas slide the tinsel towards the front of the house.

***

The second house was a bit easier. The chimney was wider, and the roof was flat, and Dean was slightly less scared to descend into the house, though he had to take a second to gather himself when his ass hit the floor. If he didn’t, he’d toss his milk and cookies into the nearest stocking.

By the third house, he was feeling a bit more confident, and actually managed to land on his feet rather than landing on any other part of his lower extremities. He did knock over an expensive-looking statue and had to defend himself from a pissed off chocolate lab who wasn’t as nice as Tiger from the first house, and wanted to take a chuck out of his jingle balls for trespassing. But Dean managed to bribe the dog with a carrot left out with the cookies, so he could slide the presents under the tree. 

For all his trouble, he helped himself to all the cookies and a Rolex watch left on the coffee table.

“Dean,” Sam said, alarmed, when Dean hauled himself up the chimney, looking queasy, and bragged about his winnings. “You can’t fuckin’ _steal_! You're _Santa Claus!_ ”

“Relaaax,” Dean said, catching his breath and waving a gloved hand through the air. “Their dad won’t miss it. He’s a prick anyway. He’s cheating on their mom.”

“Can I have the watch?” Jack yelled from the sleigh. “I don’t have one!”

Cas threw Jack a look that very much said ‘one more peep, and you’re grounded’, and turned to Dean, hissing, “Put that watch back! You can’t risk doing any of this incorrectly. What if this sin breaks the agreement and you are ravaged by the beast at the end of this?”

“Wow, that’s a really dramatic way of saying I’ll turn into were-Santa,” Dean said dryly. “But fine, I’ll put it back.”

Sam and Cas barely had time to lunge forward and stop him before Dean turned around and dropped the watch back down the chimney. They all stiffened and winced when they heard it crash at the bottom, clanking and clinking against the iron grate.

“Nice,” Sam scolded.

“That,” Dean said flatly, pointing at the chimney. “That _thing_ where I climb back up? Yeah, that’s a no-no. Screw the spirits of Christmas, because it sucks even worse coming back up. I got a shitload of soot in my mouth and it feels like being born again, and I ain’t talkin’ about bible study.”

Dean shoved past them, trudging back towards the sleigh, pausing only when Cas’s hand seemed to slip into his pocket. 

“There’s no coal in there, Cas,” Dean teased. 

Sam looked between them, and Cas got red in the face. “I was just...”

Dean winked and nodded towards the sleigh. “Anyway, fire up the ladder again for the next house, boys, because Santa’s chimney ride is one way this year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO? What do we think of the start of Dean's Ride? (I'm not talking about Castiel's candy cane, you perverts.)
> 
> Please leave me a comment and lemme know what your favourite part was! We love to hear from y'all.
> 
> For every comment left, a feather regrows on Castiel's wings! SO NO PRESSURE, HUH.
> 
> <3 Love, Jscribbles.


	7. It's Christmas, We're All Miserable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to The Ride...

The problem with simply walking out of the house versus hopping on the magical expressway back up the chimney was the same as before. At this point, Dean should probably have been used to the swaying and rocking of the rickety tinsel ladder, but the experience of climbing it was no less intimidating this time than the last. Especially not with two other fully-grown men making the thing shake and vibrate above him. 

Dean would complain, but it was his own fault that Cas and Sam were down on the ground, anyway. He’d taken a _little_ too long nosing around this last house’s _epic_ vinyl collection. Apparently, that translated to the two of them deciding Dean had been kidnapped and was being tortured horribly down in the basement. In reality, Dean knew he should just count himself lucky he hadn’t woken up the entire neighborhood with the terrified screech he’d made when Sam kicked down the door and he and Cas entered with guns and knives a-blazing.

Boy, were they disappointed to find nothing but a chagrined Dean and a pile of unsheathed records surrounding him where he sat on the floor, entertaining the little girl who lived in the house who had a surprising penchant for Zepp II. Dean wasn’t sorry, though. It wasn’t like this job had a whole lotta upsides. 

Anyway, Cas and Sam made him cut it short with the kid, though she didn’t seem to mind, so long as Dean agreed to give her a hug and to come back the next year and continue their conversation. As he’d winked and wished her a Merry Christmas, even Dean was hard-pressed to continue being grumpy about his situation. For once, he felt… _warm,_ maybe even fulfilled. It was fuckin’ weird.

So that was how they ended up there, climbing the tinsel ladder back up to the roof in a chain like a bunch of overly zealous ants. Which probably made Dean the bitch ant relegated to carrying the cracker crumb, since he was _also_ hauling the sack, deflated as it was. 

Aside from being _not_ a tiny chimney half his size, the only thing the ladder had going for it was _Cas_ scaling it ahead of him, leaving Dean with a bird’s-eye view of his ass. Normally, Dean might be a little more reserved about blatantly checking Cas out but honestly, he felt he deserved a little pick-me-up, all things considered.

Not for nothing, but there was also the fact that more and more Dean felt Cas had been giving him the “full speed ahead.” And while finding out that Castiel returned his feelings was relieving, that didn’t stop Dean’s own insecurities from continuing to rear their ugly heads from time to time. Hey, almost forty years of self-deprecation was hard to unlearn, alright? Even knowing what now sat heavily in the pocket of his Santa suit, that didn’t automatically mean Dean was ready to believe it. He found himself thinking once again about giant flaming trueforms with thousands of eyes, and all that came with that. But for the first time in his life, he sure _wanted_ to believe. 

Back to his current situation and in a semi-adjacent vein, Dean was more than relieved that Sam had climbed up first, ahead of Cas. The view behind Sam wasn’t even half as good and was ten times more dangerous. No way did Dean want to be caught in mid-air beneath Sam’s toxic rear. 

...Even if Sam’s comment about wanting to take safety precautions by going first _had_ stung, just a little, not that Dean would _ever_ under penalty of death admitted to it. He made a face as he remembered his brother comparing potentially being squashed underneath Dean to Wile E. Coyote’s misadventures with anvils—“without the funny cartoon resurrection.” Fuck him. 

In response, Dean had given Sam the middle finger, implied he was a delicate flower, called him “Your Majesty,” and then gestured for him to get on with it if he was going first, since they didn’t have all fucking night. Castiel had just rolled his eyes and squeezed Dean’s shoulder like _that_ would have helped him calm down before following Sam up the ladder. Too late, Dean realized that Cas’ touch actually _had_ evened out his brewing irritation, and fuck if he knew what to do with that. 

As Dean neared the top of the ladder, Cas was waiting, peering over the side of the eaves with a concerned expression on his face like he expected Dean to fall off the ladder at any moment. 

“Cas, stop looking at me like that,” Dean warned as the ladder whipped ominously below him. 

But Castiel’s frown only deepened, and he stuck out his hand despite the fact that Dean was not yet anywhere close enough to reach it. “I saw the _Santa Clause_ movie,” Castiel explained. “The one with Tim Allen. I _know_ how Saint Nicholas met his end in that story and I don’t wish for you to suffer the same fate.” 

With a sigh, Dean slung the toy sack over the edge of the roof and clasped Cas’ outstretched palm with his other hand, allowing himself to be pulled up. When he was vertical again and on steady—if sloped—ground, he eyed Castiel suspiciously. “When the hell did you have time to watch that thing? You know what, doesn’t matter. I ain’t Tim Allen, and I ain’t Santa Claus, either. I’m just fillin’ in. For tonight. Playing my role or whatever. One time deal, that’s it.” 

Using the Sleigh-pala for balance, Dean carefully navigated the slanted shingles and hauled himself into the front seat. Sam was already kicked back in the rear with Jack, and Dean unceremoniously dropped his bag between them, making his brother grunt as it impinged on his Gigantor-necessary leg room. 

“Serves you right,” Dean grunted, but he was still winded from the climb and his feet were _really_ starting to hurt. Also, he thought he might actually be wheezing. There was no way he could keep up this ladder thing for even one more house, _no friggin’ way._

“I dunno, Dean,” Sam said casually as he arranged the bag behind him so that he could sit more comfortably. “I get the whole ‘playing your role’ thing, but what happened down there with that little kid was _clearly_ more than that.” 

Growling a little under his breath, Dean flexed his hands on the steering wheel as Castiel slid in next to him, just a _little_ bit closer than was strictly necessary. Not that Dean was going to say anything about it—if nothing else, Cas was _warm._ Santa-tolerance or not, Dean was already sick of the damn cold. “What the hell are you implying, Sammy? What else would it be?” 

“The Spirit of Christmas!” Jack piped up joyfully from behind Castiel. He was holding up a candy cane the size of Dean’s swollen middle finger that he definitely didn’t have when Dean went down the chimney. 

“Jack, where did you find that?” Castiel questioned, an elbow slung over the back of the seat and his torso twisted so he could see Jack. The way he was positioned made his knees press into Dean’s, and that was _fine._ That was perfectly normal and _fine_ and not at all distracting. 

With a shrug, Jack shoved the end of the oversized peppermint stick back into the side of his mouth. “In the bag,” he said gleefully. “There are _lots_ of cool things in there, can I show you?” 

“No!” Dean and Castiel barked together, exchanging a glance afterward that had Sam barely masking a snort. Dean ground his teeth. 

“Stop rooting through my bag,” he scolded Jack. “You don’t know what’s in there or how it works. Hell, I’m not even sure. For all we know, you could fall into the damn thing, get lost in the never-ending magical abyss that stores all the presents.” 

“I found this!” Jack continued around the candy cane, either oblivious to or ignoring Dean’s _very_ clear instructions to stay out of the bag. Between his hands sat a shiny, green-foil-wrapped box with a big bow and a tag. “ _To Jack Kline-Winchester, From Santa._ This is for me,” he declared. “Can I open it?” 

“No!” Dean snapped and then softened when he saw Jack’s face fall. “Later,” he added gruffly. “And _stay out of my bag.”_

“That’s fair,” Jack agreed, hugging his present to his chest, candy cane still hanging from the corner of his mouth. “This is what I wanted, anyway.” 

As Dean once again gripped the steering wheel and prepared to take off, Sam stopped him with a tap to his shoulder. “Hey,” he said, voice smug. 

“What, Sam?” Dean responded, exasperated and more than ready for this entire night to be _over_ so that he could curl up in bed with some whiskey and forget this whole ordeal ever happened. Hopefully, in his _own_ body and his _own_ clothes and with none of this fucking foot pain. 

“Sorry,” Sam replied, sounding not remotely sorry at all. “It’s just, you said _my_ bag.” 

“Fuck you,” Dean grumbled, stepping on the gas. “On Dasher, on Dancer, let’s fucking go before I decide to use your leather harnesses to choke Sam out.” 

It didn’t rhyme and it wasn’t catchy, but his team didn’t seem to care. As the reindeer took off and landed immediately on top of the next house over, it was harder than it should have been for Dean to ignore Sam’s laughter.

Still, when they’d safely come to a stop on the roof (which was thankfully much wider and flatter than the previous one), Dean secretly thought that he wasn’t entirely dreading the job anymore. As he shouldered his sack and climbed out from the sleigh, he caught Castiel staring at him. 

No, not staring, _beaming._ With a proud little smile and bright eyes that crinkled at the corners, it was all Dean could do to resist smiling back. “What?” he said, forcing his tone to remain appropriately grumpy since he’s got a fuckin’ rep to protect. 

“Nothing,” Castiel replied softly. “Go on.” 

As Dean trundled away towards the chimney, he couldn’t help but look back over his shoulder. When he did, he found Castiel still watching, still smiling. He lifted a hand in question and Castiel just shrugged and waved him on. But when Dean had stuffed one leg into the chimney, he heard Castiel’s voice, lifting his head to find him standing up in the sleigh.

“I’m proud of you,” Castiel called out over the noise of the wind.

Dean just hoped he was far away that his friend couldn’t see his cheeks flush. Or that if he had, Cas would blame it on that rosy-cheeked, cherry-nosed business Santa was _supposed_ to be sporting, at least according to the stupid poem. Honestly, Dean had never been happier to have a beard obscuring the majority of his face than he was then. 

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and slid forward, still half-expecting to wind up wedged comically in between the bricks with an open fire roasting his chestnuts from below. 

No such luck. The world tilted and went wonky, and when Dean opened his eyes again he was stumbling out of a magically-enlarged hearth in yet another living room. 

“Time to go to work, I guess.” He sighed, letting his bag drop to the floor. “Oooh, Brussels,” he said, noting the Pepperidge Farm bag sitting beside a large glass of milk on a chair. “Someone knows how to treat Santa right. Extra candy for you, little Sally.” 

Four cookies and several gifts placed below the tree later, Dean was geared back up and shifting from foot-to-foot in front in front of the hearth. 

“Alright,” he said out loud. “Come on man, you can do it again. Same thing, but in reverse, just like last time, no big deal.” When psyching himself up didn’t work, Dean went for tried and tested. He closed his eyes and jumped into the hearth with a high-pitched squeal that he immediately swore to deny until his dying day. 

This time, when the ride stopped and Dean opened his eyes, he was back on the roof, perched on the edge of the chimney, just like how he’d left. “Holy shit,” he said.

“You did it!” Jack yelled out from the back of the sleigh, pumping his fist in the air. “You’re really _Santa!”_

Taking in Castiel’s smile that was somehow even wider than when Dean went down, Sam’s knowing smirk, and Jack’s enthralled face, Dean found he couldn’t keep a grin off of his own lips if he tried. If nothing else, Jack’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Dean had to admit, it felt pretty good to make his family proud for once. 

“Alright,” Dean said as he swaggered back towards the Impala-turned-sleigh, forcing his tone into mock-gruff mode but knowing full well that he wasn’t fooling anyone. He slung the bag into the back and slid in beside Cas. “Where to next, Santa’s helpers?” 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

The next several million or so houses went incredibly smoothly, so much so that all four of Team Free Will 2.0 were able to finally begin to relax. Dean slipped into a rhythm, and the deepest part of the night passed quickly and without incident. 

_Down the chimney, eat the cookies, drink the milk, leave the presents, up the chimney, back in the sleigh. Lather, rinse, repeat. Australia, New Zealand, Japan, China, India, Russia._

On and on and on until one house, one apartment, one cottage, one shared space began blurring into the next.

In a rural farmhouse in Yorkshire, England, a six-year-old managed to catch Dean off guard. He hadn’t seen any kids at all for the last million or so stops, and Dean was off his interacting game. He was also somewhat irritated after tripping and falling on his ass, landing on a still-hot piece of coal that had tumbled out of the fireplace beneath his own boots. While he was still swearing and dusting off his ass, a little girl had appeared seemingly out of thin air. 

“Santa?” she questioned in her thick accent, and Dean spun around, worried she’d be followed closely behind by an angry British father with a shotgun. 

“Yeah, sure,” Dean replied, fishing in his bag for the little girl’s— _Sophie,_ he reminded himself—present. Producing it, he shoved it into her hands. “Merry fuckin’ Christmas or whatever,” he grunted, and then mentally slapped himself. _Do better,_ his brain insisted, but the girl’s face lit up and she laughed, so Dean laughed too. 

“Be good next year,” he said with a wink, before stepping back and disappearing up the chimney before he really did traumatize her.

After that, somewhere in France in an apartment overlooking the Champs Elysees, there was a chubby eight-year-old petulantly refusing to go to sleep when Dean crash-landed in his living room. That marked the first non-English-speaking child Dean had encountered, and to his surprise, he was able to speak to him fluently. Apparently, this Santa gig came with a _lot_ more perks than Bernard let on. Not that Dean necessarily gave him much of a chance, he thought guiltily. As quick as it came, though, the guilt was gone as he recalled all the distinct _disadvantages_ that came with being Santa, too. 

_Burgers,_ he thought mournfully. What he wouldn’t give to enjoy a giant, juicy burger, extra onions. The cookie in his hand crumbled passive aggressively, but Dean shoved it in his mouth anyway, chewing with the interest of someone working their way through a fourth plate at Thanksgiving. The food was there, you knew it tasted good, but it was the _same stuff_ you’d already packed in three times over. He sighed and washed the mouthful down with the glass of milk provided before turning back to the wide-eyed bowl-cut on the couch. 

“ _Joyeux Noël, Alexandre. Sois sage encore cette année, d'accord_?” 

“ _Oui, Père Noël,_ ” the boy answered softly, clearly in awe. “ _Merci beaucoup pour mes cadeaux_.”

Dean ruffled the kid’s terrible haircut before stepping back into the fireplace, giving the eyes peeking over the arm of the couch a last salute before he vanished up the flue. At some point, he’d stopped having to close his eyes and pray to arrive in once piece just to get through the rapid-chimney-transport thing, now it was actually…kind of fun. 

_Not_ that he was about to admit that, even to Cas and Sam. Speaking of his crack team, this time when he arrived back to the sleigh, Sam was snoring in the backseat, his feet kicked up and crossed at the ankles just to the left of where Dean’s head needed to go. Jack was asleep too, his head pillowed on his shiny wrapped gift and the rest of him covered in that blanket Sam had been using earlier. He, at least, had the decency to keep his dirty-ass feet on the floor.

“Hey, hey, now,” Dean grumbled, whacking Sam’s boat-sized shoes hard enough to knock them down and to wake Sam up with a snorting start.

“Who? Wha’? Is it morning? Are we done?”

“Hardly,” Dean scoffed. “We haven’t even made it to the States yet.” 

He heaved his sack into its place in rear of the sleigh, bopping Sam on the head intentionally in the process. 

“Dude,” Sam complained, rubbing his temple.

“That’s for disrespecting my Baby with your dirty boots all over her upholstery,” Dean snapped, waving his finger in warning at his brother. “Just because she’s a little misshapen at the moment don’t mean the rules don’t apply.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam said, stretching and rearranging his long legs more comfortably in front of him. “Hey Cas, don’t suppose you’d wanna switch? The leg room back here isn’t so great.”

Before Castiel could even open his mouth fully to reply, Dean was cutting him off. “Hell no,” he answered for him. “Cas is my co-pilot. We ain’t messin’ with what works this far into the night.” 

“Alright, Dean,” Sam replied smugly, clearly suppressing a smile. “I won’t try and separate you from your emotional support angel.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see the side of Castiel’s mouth quirk up, though he had the decency not to say anything. As for Sam, Dean just put up his middle finger and ignored him. And if he hit the gas to set the reindeer off just a _little_ rougher than usual so that Sam had to grab onto the side of the sleigh for balance, well, maybe his brother would think twice about mocking him if he fell into the Atlantic. 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

By the time they reached Michigan, Dean was feeling pretty cookie-ed out. As such, he went a few thousand houses without eating or drinking, and he started to suffer the consequences. Castiel had warned him earlier that he needed to keep consuming the snacks left out for him, as they fueled his magical ability to maintain his “Christmas Spirit” persona. According to the lore, going too long without a cookies-and-milk fill-up during The Ride would potentially result in Santa becoming tired, irritable, and less than jolly. 

And as usual, Dean hadn’t listened. It was only after he’d caught himself giving a long-winded lecture to a kid named Jace who was _firmly_ on the naughty list for bullying his classmates at school that Dean even realized something wasn’t quite right. 

"Listen, when I was your age, I was hunting rugarus and making sawed-offs, you little asshole. You think your life is hard? All you gotta do is _not_ be a dick to the other kids at school. You got no excuse, buddy, you hear me?"

But in response, the kid had dug in his heels, sticking out his tongue before socking Dean in the stomach and high-tailing it out of his living room and up the stairs. 

“Oof,” Dean wheezed, doubling over. Kid was stronger than he looked.

By the time Dean made it back to the sleigh, he was downright bitchy. To top it all off, a thick fog had settled over Detroit, just as Dean was ready to navigate the sleigh into the heart of the city. The thing was, much as Dean might hate what those pointy-eared fuckers had done to his Baby, the comfort he felt behind her wheel _had_ seemed to transfer to her reindeer-led version, at least once he let himself relax. And sure, the reindeer themselves probably had a lot to do with that, too, but Dean still had to focus, had to hold the wheel and carry out some general Captain-like duties.

Which is why he became particularly frustrated when the Sleigh-pala suddenly became about a hundred times harder to control and direct when for once, he wasn’t even panicking. With Sam and Jack passed out again in the back, Castiel was oblivious to Dean’s struggles at his side, right up until he wasn’t. As Dean fought with the wheel and struggled to keep their entire production from veering _way_ too far to the right, Castiel chattered on next to him, oblivious.

“That fable grossly overstated the usefulness of a red nose as a navigational aid in heavy fog—OH, BUILDING! BUILDING!” 

As a looming shape emerged suddenly out of the murky darkness, Dean gritted his teeth and spun the wheel to the left as hard as he could, banking the sleigh until it was almost sideways in the air. Even still, they only narrowly avoided clipping one of the points on the star-shaped spire of the Guardian Building. If Dean had reached his hand out, he thought he probably could have brushed the tips of his fingers against the brick. 

Behind him, as the sleigh rocked and tipped, Sam and Jack hollered and scrambled to hold on while Castiel did the same to Dean’s right. When the sleigh was straightened once more, Dean glanced around to make sure everyone was alright. “Sorry for the rough wake up call,” he said apologetically. “Hang on, I’m taking her down.” 

With some difficulty, Dean managed to set the team and the sleigh down fairly smoothly onto the roof of the nearest flat-topped building. Once they were safe, he dropped his hands from the wheel and allowed himself a moment to recover his wits. Still incredibly irritated, he turned to look at Castiel and found him already holding out a snack packet of cookies with a knowing, judgemental expression clouding his face. “You haven’t been eating, have you?” 

Guiltily, Dean took the cookies and ripped them open, shoving three in his mouth at once. Wordlessly, Castiel then handed over a thermos that he produced from God-knows-where, and Dean was relieved to find that it was full of milk. “How’d you know?” he asked, mouth still full.

“Dean, I warned you about this,” Castiel said, annoyed. “I know that this is all new to you and you’re doing remarkably well, considering, but what just happened—Dean, you put all of our lives at risk.” 

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean protested, holding up a hand while he swallowed around the mouthful of cookies and milk. “I was pissy, yeah, but I didn’t have anything to do with _that._ I _saved_ our asses with my spectacular steering, and you’re welcome, by the way.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, but then his head cocked to the side the way it had earlier when the Impala spoke to him. “Baby says you’re telling the truth,” he announced, stopping to listen again. “She also says…” 

With that, Castiel trailed off, his face changing as he shifted his attention from studying Dean’s face to considering the reindeer that were snorting and breathing clouds of white steam into the chilly air in front of them. For the first time in who knows how many stops, Castiel exited the sleigh. Confused, Dean watched curiously as he walked first up one side of the harnessed reindeer and then down the other before returning to where Rudolph was strapped in between the front of the lines. 

“‘Course I was telling the truth,” he muttered defensively, folding his arms across his chest. While he waited for Cas to finish whatever it was he was doing, Dean polished off the rest of his cookies. He had to admit, he did feel better. He hoped the next few stops he made would have some good options left out for him. Maybe snickerdoodles. Or those peanut butter thumbprint cookies that had a Hershey kiss pressed into the middle. Those were fuckin’ awesome. Oooh, or maybe the Rice Krispie treats that were dyed green and formed into wreaths with the little Red Hots glued onto them with frosting to look like holly. 

“Uh, Dean? You have a little…” Sam wiped at the corner of his lips and Dean quickly raised his sleeve to catch whatever drool was apparently leaking out of his mouth. Sam was leaning over the back of Dean’s bench seat with his arms crossed, smirking knowingly as he looked between Castiel and Dean. 

Oh, _hell_ no. Dean was _fully_ ready to disabuse his brother of the notion that his drooling was in _any_ way related to the angel when Castiel called out his name and motioned for Dean to join him. 

Glaring at Sam, he climbed out of the sleigh and made his way to where Castiel looked suspiciously like he was holding a conversation with Rudolph and his creepy light-up nose. 

“Rudolph has something to tell you,” Castiel said flatly, and he was… Castiel _was_ having a casual conversation with the bastard child of a flashlight and a deer.

Spreading his hands and waiting, Dean gave Castiel a pointed look. “Still can’t speak reindeer,” he reminded him and Castiel sighed, like that was somehow Dean’s fault. 

“Vixen is becoming a problem,” Castiel said bluntly. “It seems that he and Rudolph have never seen eye-to-eye, going all the way back to before Rudolph was chosen to lead the team. What’s that?” Castiel paused and nodded as Rudolph snorted and huffed. Dean blinked, feeling like he was mediating a dispute between a five-year-old and her stuffed animals. “Yes, I agree.” 

“Someone want to fill me in?” Dean prodded. 

“Apologies,” Castiel said, though he didn’t _sound_ sorry to Dean. “Rudolph would like me to tell you that Vixen is the inspiration behind his namesake song, and unlike the other reindeer, he has never gotten past laughing and calling him names.” Castiel managed to say all of that with a completely straight face, and as such, Dean didn’t automatically burst out laughing, but it was a damn close thing.

“Alright, so whaddaya want me to do about it? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re kind of in the middle of a thing here. Can’t you two put your bullshit aside for like…” Dean checked his watch. “Like five more hours, real-world time? Seriously, you work one night a year.” 

Castiel sighed and pulled Dean aside by his elbow, apparently out of Rudolph’s range of hearing, or maybe it was for appearance’s sake. Honestly, Dean wasn’t even trying to keep up anymore. His head was starting to hurt and he needed more cookies. Preferably homemade. “Vixen caused the turbulence that almost sent us crashing into the Guardian Building,” Castiel told Dean and _oh,_ well, that was a problem. 

“Oh,” Dean said out loud. “That’s a problem.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, pausing to tap his finger against his chin. “Rudolph also suggested that Vixen is old and senile and perhaps may not realize the risk he is posing to both us and Christmas as a whole, however, I don’t think we can continue to risk it.” 

“So can’t we just cut ‘im loose? Tell him to fly home, or something? I’m sure he knows the way, and it isn’t like we don’t have a whole buncha spares.” 

“According to Rudolph, that will unbalance the sleigh and tire the remaining crew out so quickly we won’t be able to complete the Ride.” 

Dean half-sighed, half-growled. “Alright, well, does Rudolph have any bright ideas?” 

Castiel turned to face him with a very serious expression on his face, but a twinkle in his eye that made Dean perk up a little, and raise an eyebrow in question. He _knew_ that twinkle, it was his favorite look on Cas: co-conspirator. 

“One,” Castiel admitted. “But you may not like it. Or rather, you may need to act as if you don’t like it.” 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

As it turned out, Dean needed exactly zero prodding to be talked into executing Castiel’s (or more accurately, Rudolph’s) plan. They coaxed Sam out of the sleigh under the pretense of Cas needing help unharnessing Vixen, while Dean hopped back in to “concentrate his Christmas powers” on “coming up with a solution”. It was one big, transparent lie but really, it was Sam’s own fault for not asking more questions. Maybe he was just exhausted, but Dean would never have made that same mistake in his position. And anyway, it was about time Sammy got a taste of the gingerbread-flavored medicine for himself. 

Dean watched as Castiel presumably told Vixen to pound sand and the reindeer snorted derisively before vanishing into thin air. The look on Castiel’s face was nothing short of disgusted, so Dean could only assume Vixen had a few choice words he telepathically left Castiel with. A quick glance around showed the other reindeer to be seemingly unbothered, and Rudolph triumphantly snorting and stomping his hooves at the front of the pack. 

With a deep breath in, Dean closed his eyes and hoped Cas was fucking right about the extent of his powers. He had been sure that combining Dean’s theoretical ability to use his own magically-enhanced will with the manifesting power of the sleigh would be enough to make this happen, but Dean? Well, Dean had never exactly been a believer, and he didn’t have any experience with harnessing internal magicks, not like Sam did. 

_Here goes nothing,_ he thought, wrapping his fingers around the steering wheel as he pictured in his mind exactly what he wanted to happen. 

Except, at the _very_ last second, Dean stopped.

It sounded stupid, even in his own head, but he couldn’t get past the idea of doing to Sam what was done to him. Even _if_ it would only be for a couple of hours and Sam would _barely_ even have to do anything at all _and_ he’d be saving all of their asses at the same time. Well, when you put it like that… 

_No,_ Dean reprimanded himself internally. Sure, Sam deserved it for yanking his chain, but Dean knew better than anyone that just because _other_ people found something funny, didn’t mean it felt good to be the butt of their jokes. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and found Sam already looking back at him questioningly. 

“Dean, what’s up? What are you doing?”

And Dean couldn’t lie to his little brother, not when he was peering at him with his ridiculous puppy dog eyes and his stupid shaggy hair that made him look at _least_ three times as pitiable. “Fuck,” Dean muttered under his breath. “Don’t make me regret this,” he said out loud and motioned Sam over. Castiel raised an eyebrow, but he let Dean do what he was doing, and for that, Dean was grateful. 

“So listen,” he started, not sure exactly how to go about breaking the news. “We, uh, we can’t fly the sleigh without Vixen.” He darted a glance away from Sam to Cas and received an encouraging nod. In fact, if he wasn’t completely mistaken, he might have thought Cas actually looked proud. “Cas figured out a way to fix this—” They were interrupted suddenly by a loud bray from Rudolph, who apparently did not like the credit for his idea being handed off. “— _and_ the light-up toy—” Rudolph snorted, satisfied, and Dean continued. “And actually, uh, it’s kind of on you, this time.”

Sam’s expression morphed into something a _lot_ more wary. “On me? Why me? And why do I have the feeling you’re about to make me your guinea pig for something crazy, or at least, something I’m not going to like?” 

Dean shrugged, unable to totally suppress his own amusement, but he tried. “No, you’re definitely not gonna like it. But I need you to trust me and hand over permission to do it anyway. Just think of it like a family tradition. It’s Christmas, and we’re all miserable."

Shaking his head, Sam resisted. “I can’t imagine what I ever did to deserve this… whatever it is you’re going to do.”

“Uh, laughed at me for a week straight over turning into Santa?”

Sam blinked, and conceded. “Yeah, well, you have me there.” He scuffed the toe of his boot on the roof while Dean and Castiel continued to wait for his answer. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” 

With a grin, Dean leaned over the sleigh and yanked Sam into a hug, clapping him roughly on the back. “Atta boy, Sammy. Way to take one for the team.” 

“You know what, I don’t even want details. It’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, but it’s probably better you don’t give me any reasons to bail out. I trust you.” 

“Huge mistake!” Dean declared with a smirk, but before Sam could second-guess his decision, Dean was closing his eyes and channeling his own power alongside that of the Sleigh-pala into manifesting his earlier vision. And _maybe_ he could have come up with some moderately less humiliating solution with all of that Christmas cheer at his disposal, but really, Sam and his smugness at Dean’s transformation _could_ stand to be taken down a notch. It’s not like he’d ever have an opportunity like this handed to him again, and Sam _did_ say yes...

At first, there was nothing, but then Castiel’s deep, rumbling laugh reaching his ear was all Dean needed to know that his attempt worked. Although, the loud, incredibly annoyed “HOOOONK,” that followed helped, and had Dean grinning ear-to-ear before he even managed to open his eyes. 

There, standing next to Castiel in Vixen’s former place in the lineup, was a chocolate brown moose wearing a perfectly-fitted harness complete with jingle bells and a saddle-blanket that looked suspiciously like the plaid Sam had been wearing. The thing even had a messy tuft of too-long hair above its forehead, right between the antlers. Dean whooped and jumped out of the sleigh with Jack hot on his heels.

“That was amazing!” Jack gushed. “How did you do that? Can I do it? Can I be a moose next? Or a reindeer? I’d _love_ to be a reindeer. Sam! Do you like being a moose, Sam?” 

Without waiting for any reply from Dean, Jack rushed past both him and Castiel to pet Sam’s furry, wide nose. If Dean had any question as to who was inside that antlered head, the bitchface the moose managed to throw Dean would have left him with absolutely _no_ doubts.

“Damn, Sammy,” Dean teased, following his remark with an admiring whistle as he strolled up to Sam’s side, running a hand over the giant antlers sprouting from Sam’s head. They looked heavy, and that pleased Dean to no end.

“Dean,” Castiel chastised, but he wasn’t even trying to suppress his own grin so Dean just shrugged.

“MOOONK,” Sam protested.

Dean just shook his head, attempting to look as patronizing as possible. “What’s the matter, Sammy? You were all about “playing our roles” before. At least, you were back when it was _my_ ass on the line with the unflattering new look and unwanted responsibilities.” He laughed and Sam glared like only a moose could.

“BORK,” Sam said.

“Hey, up to you,” Dean replied with a shrug. “I can’t force you to go back on your ‘yes’, but you’ll be ruining Christmas for a couple million kids that still haven’t gotten their presents. Totally your call.”

“MORK,” said Sam, shaking his head as he huffed a noise that sounded like a really aggravated sneeze. 

“Sam says he’s not going back on his promise. He’ll do it,” Castiel relayed. “He also says some other things, but I won’t repeat them just now,” he added, tipping his head towards Jack, who was enthusiastically assessing and shaking Sam’s jingle bells one at a time.

“Aw, suck it up, Sammy,” Dean said with a laugh and a slap to the back of Sam’s neck that made him snort again. “It’s just one night, right?” With a wink, he grabbed Jack by the arm and dragged him back to the sleigh. “Hop in kid, we still got a long ways to go.” 

As the three of them got settled again, Jack tapped Dean on the shoulder. “Did you see that Prancer has yours and Sam’s initials shaved into his fur? Do you think the elves did that?”

“Did I—what? Are you serious?” Dean leaned forward in his seat, standing up a little and craning his neck to see around Sam’s giant moose-ass to where Prancer was hooked up in front of him. Sure enough, there it was. “D.W.” and “S.W.” shaved neatly over Prancer’s left hip. “Sonofabitch,” Dean murmured. “Alright, I don’t care what anybody says, that’s fuckin’ cool.” 

As he was admiring the barber-quality trim job, Dean also noticed Dancer snorting and what sure as hell _looked_ like making eyes at Sam. 

"Hey,” he called out. “No flirting until wrap time, you hear me?” He moved to take the wheel and then paused. 

“I think she likes you, Sammy,” he called out instead. “Don't worry, I'll make sure we set up a nice hay paddock lovenest for you two back in the bunker’s garage. Jack will love it, you'll make all of his dreams come true. Isn't that what you wanted? We'll park you right next to the Thunderbird."

“BORK,” Sam replied and Castiel snorted. Dean lifted an eyebrow but Cas just shook his head.

“You don’t want to know,” Cas said with a chuckle. 

“Fine by me,” Dean said, stepping on the gas, sending them racing into the sky once more. 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

The rest of the night went more smoothly than Dean could ever have hoped, considering he had a _moose_ pulling his sleigh, and an inexperienced one at that. Logic dictated that Sam’s size and weight alone would have unbalanced the sleigh, but as Castiel tried to explain, apparently it was the _number_ of reindeer and not the size that mattered. Whatever. Dean was all out of energy to put into trying to parse that shit out. Who cared, so long as the sleigh and the presents all got where they were going?

Kansas was the last stop on their itinerary, the last state to complete before Dean got to _hopefully_ get his body (and his car) back. They worked it from the outside in, moving in a spiral that tightened up the closer they got to Lebanon. Just a few miles from the bunker, Dean slid down the chimney of the last house of the night.

Of course, he should have expected that it wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ be as easy as all that. After all, Santa or not, Dean was still a Winchester, and things were never simple _or_ easy for the Winchesters. Not on Christmas, not ever.

When Dean strode out of the magically-enlarged chimney in the last house of Christmas, he came face to face with a demon holding an entire family hostage. Mom and Dad tied to chairs, kids duct-taped to each other and shoved neatly underneath the tree in a sick parody of Dean’s entire night up to this point. The whole scene made fury rise in his chest like nothing he’d ever felt before. How _dare_ the forces of evil make a mockery of _Christmas?_ This was _Dean’s_ night, this was _Santa’s_ fucking territory, and he was not about to stand for this bullshit.

Without hesitation, Dean whipped a shotgun out of his sack and blasted the surprised demon right in the chest twice. It didn’t kill the demon, but it sent the meatsuit reeling, stunning the demon enough that Dean was able to swoop in and knock him down. For once, Dean was glad for his additional weight. It helped keep the abomination pinned as Dean pulled a cross from up his sleeve and pressed it against the demon’s head as he recited the exorcism.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio! Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica! Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica! Adjuramus te!”_

Dean finished the incantation with a flourish as the demon smoked out and went flying off. “Go back to Ho Ho Hell, you son of a bitch,” Dean called after it before turning his attention to the shell-shocked family. 

In the end, no one had any worse injuries than some reddened skin from pulling off duct tape. That fact alone felt like a bit of a Christmas miracle, and Dean tried hard not to think about what might have happened if he’d come down that chimney only a few minutes later. 

Or worse, not at all. Which might very well have happened if he hadn’t finally caved to the pressure of playing Santa for the night.

“Don’t worry,” Dean very seriously said to the six-year-old girl, Adalynn, and her nine-year-old brother, Trevor. “He’s on the naughty list…forever.” 

“We can’t thank you enough,” the kids’ mother babbled. Both she and the father seemed to accept Dean’s identity at face value, which would have been interesting if Dean wasn’t so exhausted. He supposed believing in a Santa who also fights evil _was_ a pretty reassuring thought after being kidnapped and held hostage by a demon. Hell, he believed in all kinds of shit most people would be of the mind he should be locked up for, so who was Dean to judge?

Ultimately, Dean accepted an extra plate of homemade cookies to take home with him as a show of gratitude, though he assured the family repeatedly that it wasn’t necessary. 

By the time he was positioning himself to head back up the chimney, the kids had already ripped open their presents and were playing happily. It was a completely opposite scene to what he burst in on, and it was heart-warming as fuck. 

Dean decided right then to check in on the family tomorrow, hopefully when he was firmly back in his own body. He’d knock on the door next time, too. 

On the roof, Sam greeted him by stomping his feet impatiently. Castiel’s face was full of curiosity, probably wondering what took him so long. 

“HONK,” Sam demanded, and Dean waved him off.

“Next stop, the bunker,” he said as he passed.

Sam snuffled petulantly.

When he climbed into the sleigh, Dean noted that Jack was still fast asleep, and so he took a moment to slide just a _little_ bit closer to Castiel. 

“You know,” he said after a long moment of silence. “I know we’ve talked about this before, but growing up, I always felt like shit for not being able to give Sammy a decent Christmas.” He paused and looked up at the sky. The stars were all twinkling, and a light snow was beginning to fall. The mood was _especially_ Christmas-y, and Dean allowed himself to get the _tiniest_ bit sentimental.

“I know what Bernard said about how sometimes Christmas is a _feeling_ or whatever, but it didn’t change how I felt about not being able to give Sam the real deal. And maybe this is dumb or whatever, but I kinda feel like I got to do that tonight.” 

“I’m assuming you mean for other children, since I’m entirely certain Sam’s greatest Christmas wish was not to be turned into a moose,” Castiel replied and Dean burst out laughing.

“Yeah,” he conceded. “Although, that was hilarious. But yeah, Cas, that’s what I meant. Giving other kids the Christmas I could never give Sam when he was little. You don’t know how many under-ten-year-olds I saw with next to nothing, man. Kids that had like, “a blanket” or “a warm coat” on their Christmas lists. Broke my fuckin’ heart and put it back together all at the same time.” He lowered his eyes and stared at the bright red fabric stretched across his thick thighs. “I just hope we made a difference where we could.”

“You did,” Castiel replied, reaching for Dean’s hand and taking it, intertwining their fingers together for the first time since their _not-date_ at the skating rink. Swallowing hard, Dean did the scariest thing and squeezed back. “Are you ready to find out what comes next, Santa?” 

Dean looked up and met Castiel’s eyes, so wide and bright and full of hope. And maybe, if Dean was reading him correctly, just a _hint_ of desire. 

“Yeah,” he replied. “Fuck yeah. I’m ready.” 

He meant it. Dean _was_ finally ready, for everything there was to come.

Castiel stayed close as Dean scooted back over to put the sleigh into gear and drive them back to the bunker. As he took off from the rooftop one last time, he looked over at Castiel and said, “Oh. And if you try and tell _anyone_ that I didn't hate this for even one second, I will fuckin’ _end_ you."

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Dean,” Castiel replied with a smile.

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two to go, stay tuned for the happily ever after and the epilogue ;) 
> 
> Oh, and the French is probably pretty obvious from context, but Dean says, "Merry Christmas, Alexander. Be good again this year, alright?"  
> And Alexander responds: "Yes, Santa, thank you for my presents."


	8. All I Want For Christmas Is You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ride is over, and the team arrive back at the bunker. Dean survived Christmas as Santa, but there's one more letter to consider before the night ends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One final Christmas gift from me, Mal, before we head into the new year. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it as much as Dean does ;)
> 
> Many thanks to jscribbles for taking the time to dig through this chapter for me. You are the wind beneath my wiiiings!
> 
> \- Mal <3

By the time the sleigh-pala and its reindeer-moose team of fliers trotted their way back into the bunker garage, Dean was more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life. Time-magic-fuckery aside, he still _felt_ like he’d climbed a million chimneys, unfortunately.

Dean was holding Castiel’s hand, as he had for the whole ride back from the last house. He gave it another squeeze before finally letting him go so that they could disembark.

“You did it, Dean,” Castiel said as Dean approached the reindeer in front of Baby’s hood, moving over to where Sam—chunkier and moosier than the sleek reindeer—waited, joining Dean there. “You saved Christmas.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Little dramatic, there. What I did do was make sure I’m not gonna turn into some kinda blood-thirsty Krampus thing, so I think that’s a win.”

“I happen to agree,” Castiel said with a small smirk. 

Patting Sam on his moosey nose, Dean grinned down at him. “Ready to have two incredibly lanky legs again, Sammy?”

“BORK.”

“Thought so.” Dean closed his eyes for a moment, stretching out his intention just like he’d done on the sleigh before. With a strange, tingling, _whoosh-_ ing sensation, Dean _pushed_ Sam back to his normal shape.

“That was NOT funny,” Sam snapped as soon as his voice came back.

“Oh, it was,” Dean said, grinning. “And I did ask you if you’d do anything to help…” 

Sam shook his head, but his lip quirked, and Dean knew they were fine. “I guess. I trusted you, and it worked, so...no harm, no foul. But never moose me again.”

“Oh, believe me,” Dean said as he held his hands up. “I don’t wanna ever do any of this again.”

“Speaking of…” Castiel said.

Dean and Sam both turned to see him pointing at the sleigh-pala.

“BABY!” Dean cried, running back to his precious car as fast as his painful, swollen feet would allow, throwing his arms around as much of the Impala as he could reach, and smacking exaggerated kisses across her frame.

She was stunning, gleaming, fresh polished...and normal. Distinctly un-sleigh-like.

“Man, we never get that kinda reception from you,” Sam joked. Watching Dean love on the car, he laughed and added, “though I’ll pass, myself. I wouldn’t want that kind of greeting from you, personally.”

Dean looked up to glare at Sam, seeing Castiel grinning along with him. Cas parted his lips, as if he was going to agree with Sam...but then closed his mouth, smiling quietly, as if he’d changed his mind.

Well. Maybe Cas _would_ enjoy that kinda greeting from Dean.

Peeling himself away from Baby’s paint job, Dean reached down, self-consciously patting his pocket. He knew that Castiel had put a letter in there—he knew anytime someone wrote a letter to Santa. And he had a pretty good idea what it entailed...but this was one magical message that Dean wanted to read for himself with his own decidedly non-magical eyes. Just to be sure.

Jack was still asleep, his mouth slightly open and his body loose and relaxed on the back seat of the Impala.

“Somebody sugar-crashed _hard,_ ” Sam noted, biting back a smile.

“Should we wake him up?” Dean asked, smiling fondly down at the kid.

“I could just carry him to his room,” Castiel offered, looking just as touched as the rest of them.

“He has got a gift to open,” Dean reminded Castiel. “But I suppose it’s not really Christmas Day until morning. What’s the time now here? My body feels like we were going up and down chimneys for about twelve weeks.”

Opening the Impala’s back door, Castiel nodded thoughtfully. “Your body is most likely quite right in its interpretation of that. However that magic works, though, we’ve somehow arrived back here at five a.m.”

Dean nodded, watching as Castiel slipped one arm around Jack and one under his knees, lifting him bodily from the back seat with barely a change in expression. 

“Do you know what his gift is, Dean?” Sam asked, helpfully grabbing the shiny, green-paper-wrapped package from the seat where Jack had been.

Dean grinned warmly and whispered,“Yeah...roller blades. With light up wheels.”

A nose bumped Dean’s arm. A flashing, red, still-slightly-creepy nose. Looking down to where the reindeer stood, Dean saw that the whole procession of overgrown Christmas Bambis had come over to stare at him.

“They’re saying thank you,” Castiel translated quietly. “And goodbye—until next year.”

“Uh, yeah, about that…” Dean looked down at them, grimacing. “I guess me not heading back to Santa’s place is kind of a break in procedure. But, hopefully by next Christmas you’ll have a whole other dude to fly around.”

“Without Dean being murdered,” Sam added helpfully.

Having bid the reindeer goodbye, Dean, Sam, and Castiel watched as they trotted out of the garage and took off. Jack didn’t stir, still flopped on Castiel’s shoulder.

They walked on into the rest of the bunker, only to be stopped in their tracks.

“Elves,” Dean muttered. “Gotta be elves.”

Gone was the Charlie Brown crack den tree. In its place, occupying a whole corner of the war room, there was a towering, nine-foot fir. It filled the whole room with the smells of Christmas, and Dean found that he couldn’t help but smile. Lights twinkled up the tree, tinsel—actual matching, correct-length tinsel—covered its boughs, and tiny ornaments rested on its branches. It was magnificent. Even the slightly cross-eyed foil angel that Walmart had provided was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the tree was topped with a brand new angel ornament, suspiciously blue-eyed and tousel-haired.

“Look,” whispered Sam, trying not to wake Jack even as he pointed to the tree-topper. “They even gave it a little trench coat.” 

Castiel made a quiet _hrmph_ of indignation, and Dean got the impression he’d have said a lot more if he wasn’t still holding the deeply sleeping, mid-sugar-coma’d nephil. 

“Better get him to his room,” Dean said softly. “He can see all this when he wakes up for Christmas.”

Castiel nodded and headed off to deposit Jack in bed. Sam moved over to put Jack’s Santa present under the tree. 

“I’m gonna head off to bed, too,” Sam said as he straightened up, his back cracking. “Being a moose was exhausting.”

Dean stifled a laugh. “Sure. I’m pretty beat, so Christmas might be a little late at Santa’s house,” he joked.

Sam’s lip twitched softly, and he began to head off out of the war room toward the bedrooms—but he stopped, a couple of feet from the door, and turned. “Hey Dean?” he began, almost nervously. “I just want to say...I know I gave you a hard time about the Santa thing. Because that’s just us, and it always has been.”

Dean nodded; he got it.

“But you know, you did great. You’ve been doing great, even before Christmas,” Sam continued. “And I just wanted to say that, uh… Well, I fully support Santa getting his Christmas wish, too.”

In his pocket, Dean could feel the weight of Castiel’s note, and it seemed to get heavier with Sam’s carefully chosen words. But when he looked up, Sam had that soft annoying-knowing look in his eye, and somehow...it was okay.

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, giving a little grin. “I guess we’ll see how that turns out. The Forces of Christmas can be a little unpredictable, you don’t always get what you want.”

Grinning wide, Sam chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Dean. I think it’s pretty predictable, at this point. So…Merry Christmas, I guess.”

Ugh, Dean thought, fighting back yet another smile. _This must be what the Grinch felt like when his heart started growing._

“Night, Sam.”

“Goodnight. Make sure you keep your wish granting to the bedroom.”

“Pretty sure I’ve still got enough juice left to moose you again—”

Sam dashed off down the corridor, grinning, and Dean was left in the war room, smiling and warm. 

Dean strolled over to take a closer look at the tree. Most of the lights in the war room were off, and the multicolored twinkle lights were the main source of illumination. The corner glowed, bright and merry, and Dean couldn’t bring himself to be grumpy about it. 

“Thanks, Bernard,” he whispered into the air. 

There was no answer, but Dean could have sworn the lights shone a little brighter. Maybe the little dude wasn’t so bad. Y’know, when he wasn’t torturing your brother and the guy you loved to coerce you into mythical, seasonal chaos.

_The guy you loved._

Dean took a breath, his fingers sliding into his pocket and curling around the paper within.

_Dear Santa,_

_I am unsure quite how this process works. I’ll admit, I never paid attention to the human traditions of Christmas. Mostly, I’d spend the season trying to ignore Gabriel crowing over having songs written about him. As an angel, ‘Santa’ wasn’t a thing I considered when it came to Yuletide._

_But here we are. I have no idea how I will give this to you. My research indicates it should be placed in a fireplace that the bunker does not have, or taken to a shopping mall, where a man with questionable motives will entice me to sit on his knee._

_Hopefully, I will have to do neither, and I can simply slip this into your pocket for you to find._

_I have often dwelled on all the mistakes that I have made. I don’t consider it a fault to do so; I have to learn from them. And over this Christmas season, I have spent many hours thinking through the most recent mistake that I made: pulling away from you when we ice skated back in Des Moines. I confess, at the time, I thought you were simply losing your balance once more. Anything other than that, I simply hadn’t conceived of deserving. But now_ _… Well, it has since occurred to me that perhaps you were trying to kiss me._

_So much has happened since then that an apology seems out of place. So instead, as you are now Santa Claus, I will simply confess my own Christmas wishes to you._

_Perhaps it’s selfish, and perhaps it’s undeserved. But Christmas, I’m told, is a time for hope._

_So I hope, and I wish, that you would be willing to try again, Dean._

_Because all I want for Christmas...is you._

_\- Castiel_

Dean had known, as soon as Castiel had penned the letter, exactly what it said. He hadn’t needed to deliver it, technically. But at the time, he’d ignored it: in the midst of a holiday-themed breakdown wasn’t the best time to consider how he was going to respond.

Not that he had any doubt how he was going to answer… Of course not. Not after all this time. But he was still _scared._ It was still a big step, a big change, letting something into his life that he’d never been brave enough to even admit aloud that he wanted.

Folding the note carefully, Dean slipped it back into his pocket. He was glad that he had it, glad that he got to read it with his own eyes. So that he could keep it, and so that he could know it was real. Not the magic of Christmas...just them.

Boots clacked along the corridor and into the war room. Dean turned, offering Castiel a smile as he emerged from putting Jack to bed.

“He still out?” Dean asked.

“He didn’t even stir when I took his shoes off.” Castiel moved across the room to where Dean stood next to the tree, looking up at it as he came to a stop next to him.

The rainbow lights cascaded across Castiel’s skin, highlighting his tanned cheekbones and reflecting in his crystal-clear, vivid blue eyes. Dean just stared, unconcerned with being caught, enjoying the sight of his angel with such a gorgeous, glowing halo of lights around him. He looked stunningly angelic, but also fantastically human, right there for Dean to reach out and take, if he could just be brave enough.

“Did Sam go to bed?” Castiel asked, smiling at Dean in a calm, casual way that indicated he had not an inkling of how Dean was turning to mush in front of him.

“Uh,” Dean said, gulping so hard his throat clicked audibly. “Yeah. Sleep. Sam did. He went to sleep.”

Castiel nodded solemnly. “It’s been a long night for everyone. Very literally, actually. Even I feel like I could rest, after all that—you must be exhausted, Dean. You should go to bed now, too. We can speak in the morning, and take stock of the Christmas situation.”

“I—yeah. Yeah, I am tired,” Dean admitted. “Feet hurt.” 

With another nod, Castiel stepped back, moving away from the tree. “I’ll bid you goodnight, then. I think there may be some books in the library we haven’t pulled yet, so perhaps by the time you wake—”

“Wait.” It was the scariest word Dean had ever said.

Castiel paused, a few steps away, turning back. He looked back at Dean questionably, the tiniest tilt to his head. 

“One chance,” Dean breathed out, tugging the letter back from his pocket and holding it up. Castiel’s eyes went to it immediately, and Dean saw his Adam’s apple bob as he gulped. Somehow it was easier, knowing that Castiel was afraid, too. Nervous. Unsure. “I’m giving you one chance to take this back,” Dean said carefully, taking a step forward. “A chance to change your mind, to be absolutely sure.”

The breath Castiel let out was ragged around the edges, a shaky nervousness to it that had Dean extending his hand, offering it out toward him. Hoping.

Castiel took a step forward, and lifted his hand to place it in Dean’s. Slowly, he rotated their palms, entwining their fingers as they had been on the ice rink and on the sleigh.

“Did you want me to take it back?” Castiel whispered, close enough again that his eyes reflected the twinkling lights.

Wasn’t that a question. Did Dean want him to take it back? Hell, no. Would it be easier? Probably. But when had Winchesters ever taken the easy route?

“No,” Dean said, ignoring the way his voice shook just like Castiel’s had. “I don’t want you to take it back.”

A slow, amazed smile began to grow at the edge of Castiel’s mouth, crinkling his eyes up the way that made Dean want to trace his fingers across his skin. So he did, raising a nervous hand to rest his thumb on the wrinkles, smiling back in turn, allowing his fingers to curl around the side of Castiel’s face and into his hair.

Castiel tightened his grip around Dean’s other hand, and pulled him an inch or two closer. 

Dean held his breath as Castiel leaned in, the unbelievable, excited charge to the air between them increasing more and more as the space compressed. But this time, it was Dean that paused; he didn’t pull back, fuck no. But he paused, biting his lip, letting his eyes drop down to Castiel’s chest for a moment. He squeezed Castiel’s fingers tighter.

“I’m still…” Dean whispered, his hand dropping from Castiel’s face to gesture down to himself. There was still a lot of him to encompass.

The suit, Dean realized, didn’t fit like it once had—it didn’t feel like it was made for him anymore, some places loose, some places tight. But he was still, undeniably, fat. 

“You’re you again,” Castiel said reassuringly. “Look.” He reached over, grabbing one of the larger silver baubles from the huge Christmas tree, and holding it up in front of Dean’s face. 

Dean gasped, his eyes widening. In the distorted, spherical image of himself reflected in the surface, he could see sandy, brownish hair. No more silver fox, no more Christmas white. His beard, too, was blondish-brown, with the odd strand of gray that being forty afforded him. He had a feeling that if he shaved now, it wouldn’t grow back.

“It’s gone,” Dean said. “The magic...until next year, maybe.”

Castiel nodded. He was still stood so close that Dean could almost feel his eyes resting on him, even if he couldn’t quite meet them as he said, “Cas, I...I’m still Santa- _sized_ , though.”

“Yes,” Castiel said, calm and soft. “I have a theory.”

“Do I want to hear it?”

“Initially, the magic increased your size to make you fit the role of Santa.”

“Go on.” 

“But in the magic of the extended night…I calculate that you consumed approximately five-hundred-thousand cookies. Which equates to several million calories, which—depending on metabolism—would cause a weight gain of—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted, feeling like he was choking on nothing, “Shut up. I get it, okay.” Awkwardly, he shifted, pulling away from Castiel, feeling a lot smaller even though he was, technically, bigger.

“Dean,” Castiel said again, so gently Dean could have cried. “Do you realize, through all I’ve written, and said, and done, that I’m in love with you?”

Anything Dean could have said would have come out as an incomprehensible squeak, so he said nothing and merely forced out a nod. He did realize that, or he’d hoped, read between the lines, not just of the note but of the way their relationship had been evolving. 

“Every time you said—”

“ _I need you_ ,’ Dean croaked out, nodding. “Yeah, that wasn’t what I meant. Not all I meant.”

“And every time I said, ‘ _of course’_...” Castiel whispered, using his grip on Dean’s fingers to pull him back closer again, his other hand removing the Christmas bauble from Dean’s grip and placing it reverently back on the tree. “That wasn’t all I meant, either.” 

How could Dean’s chest feel like it was so full, but still constantly expanding? He felt trapped in his own body, but at the same time, deliciously free of it. “So,” he said, daring to look up, seeking out Castiel’s light-filled gaze in the glow of the tree, “still? Even like this?”

Castiel shook his head, and it was so _fond_ that Dean felt himself melting again, relaxing. 

“Oh, Dean,” Cas said, the tiniest bit chastising. “I don’t care what you look like. I’ve got hundreds of eyes to tell me you’re perfect, no matter what size you are.”

Oh, and if that wasn’t _exactly_ what Dean needed to hear. 

His eyes dropped to Castiel’s chest again, but this time it was with a little smile. Dean could feel his cheeks heating, and he hoped that Castiel couldn’t tell in the dim, twinkly light. “Yeah, well,” Dean managed to get out. “Same. Pretty sure I’d be in love with _all_ of your faces, so…yeah.”

Castiel gave out a low chuckle, and suddenly everything was easy again; he tugged Dean back across the last few inches between them, reaching out to slide his empty hand on to Dean’s waist, giving it a teasing little squeeze. “Don’t hide from me, please,” he requested, gently.

So, Dean looked up, and kissed him.

Castiel let out a soft, breathless whine of what Dean could only describe as _relief_ when their lips touched, and then he fell into it, kissing back, his hands letting go of Dean’s to embrace him fully. The feeling of Castiel’s palms pressed into Dean’s back as he pushed in return against Dean’s lips was everything.

Dean let the kiss linger, let their lips cling together for long seconds even after it was done, pressing his forehead into Castiel’s. Opening his eyes bravely, he found a wide, dazed, ecstatic blue gaze fixed back on him.

“Merry Christmas, Cas,” Dean whispered.

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

Dean woke up in his own bed, clean-shaven, and desperately craving coffee. God, that was a fantastic experience. Made even better by the fact that he wasn’t alone.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean croaked, rolling on to his side to where the angel sat on the mattress next to him, slumped down, a thick book in his lap. His trench coat was gone, folded on the back of Dean’s chair with his suit jacket, and his boots were kicked off carelessly at the side of the bed.

When Dean spoke, Castiel smiled across at him, closing the heavy tome and placing it on the nightstand. “Hello, Dean,” he intoned warmly, turning onto his side and shuffling down further to mirror Dean’s position on the bed.

“‘S a pretty nice way to wake up,” Dean mumbled. “Could get used to it.”

With a smile that Dean could only possibly describe as openly flirtatious, Castiel reached out, smoothing a hand down Dean’s arm to find his fingers, entwining their hands familiarly. “I believe I can think of a few ways to make it even better.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, immediately feeling more awake. “That so?” he said, loaded with meaning, shuffling forward an inch or two on the mattress.

They hadn’t talked too much more the night before, far too exhausted from long hours of Santa-ing. They’d kissed a little more, and when Dean had suggested that he should go to bed, he’d invited Castiel to stay. And he had. It hadn’t been with any expectation of... _more_ , exactly, but Dean sure as hell wasn’t going to say no to more if Cas was up for that kind of thing.

Castiel grinned, leaning over to press his lips to the bolt of Dean’s jaw, murmuring softly there, “It’s just after eleven, but no one else is awake yet. Why don’t you freshen up while I fetch you some coffee?”

Dean couldn’t help but groan aloud at the thought of coffee. He still felt so, so damn tired. “Jesus, fuck yes. Coffee. I can drink coffee, Cas! And you have no idea how eager I am to have something solid in my mouth that isn’t a cookie.”

Castiel blinked and flushed, and then—ohhh, and then Dean re-heard what he’d said. 

“I, uh, didn’t actually mean—”

“I believe the phrase,” Castiel interrupted quickly, “is ‘no take-backsies’.” 

Dean couldn’t help but give a little snort of laughter, the words sounded so ridiculous coming from Castiel’s mouth. Feeling like he was on even enough ground for a little teasing now, Dean leaned in closer, crowding Castiel’s space and pressing his lips up to his ear. “You want me to suck your dick, Cas? You want me to slide down between your legs, and take you in my mouth, and know that I’ve never done that with a man before, that it’s just for you? That you can have it, have anything you want, now?”

Castiel made a soft choking noise. “Dean, I—” He paused, and Dean heard him moisten his lips, settling his shaky voice. “Yes.”

“Then,” Dean purred low, grinning, “I suggest you get me some coffee, so I don’t fall back asleep.” 

Watching Castiel scramble out of the bed and dash up the hallway to the kitchen in socked feet with his white dress shirt crumpled and askew, Dean snickered to himself. Yes, he really did want to do all of that with Cas. He wanted to find out what made him tick, what made him squirm, what’d make him growl and push Dean into the bed. He wanted all of those things, and now…

For a moment—a brief, shining moment, Dean was so _glad_ that he’d become Santa.

Shaking his head at himself, Dean groaned into the pillow. Nope, nope, he definitely was not going to be thankful for those stupid gnomes and the fucking ‘Forces of Christmas’. Screw that. 

“Elves can still bite me,” Dean announced to no one, before pushing himself out of the bed and grabbing some clean sweats and one of his big tees, as it seemed like none of his old things would fit for a while. 

A quick, quiet run down the corridor to the bunker’s large, barracks-style shower room sorted out all of Dean’s most important issues. Freshening up as quickly as he could—including all the important, possibly-hopefully-to-be-used spots, of course— Dean resolutely ignored the fact that he now had to scrub _under_ his stomach and not just _over_ it, and went to brush his teeth. 

He was even brave enough to uncover the mirror. 

For a few minutes, anyway. Then he covered it back up, reminded himself that Cas loved him as he was, and headed back up the corridor.

He was a work in progress.

The evening (morning?) before, Dean had been taken wonderfully by surprise. He’d expected Castiel to be somewhat tentative—after all, weird rapey reaper chick aside, Cas was basically an eons-old virgin. Dean wasn’t sure what had gone on with Daphne, or if there was anything else he didn’t know about, but given how Castiel reacted everytime Rowena so much as chirped in his direction, Dean didn’t have him pegged as much of a Casanova. And while that did seem to be mostly true, Dean had definitely underestimated Castiel’s directness. 

After their first cautious, soft kisses in front of the Christmas tree, Castiel had seemed to relax into it, finding his footing; pushing up against Dean, hands in his hair and roaming his body, vocal and joyful and _awesome._

Even so, with that in mind, Dean was still taken aback at the effect entering his bedroom once more had on him. Coffee sat on Dean’s nightstand, in his favorite mug—that was important point number one. But then, in the middle of the bed, lay Castiel. He was propped up on pillows, relaxing back as he waited for Dean to return, his feet crossed at the ankles. His hands, though. His _hands._

As Castiel sat with his eyes on the door, smiling at Dean’s entrance, he slowly, painfully slowly, hooked his finger under the knot of his tie and began to tug it loose.

Dean was entranced. 

The silk slowly slithered from around Castiel’s neck before being tossed aside, off the bed. It slipped down to the floor, and Dean’s eyes followed it for a moment, taking in the way it curled against the stark concrete floor of his simple, Men of Letters dorm. Dean would never, in a hundred years of Hell, have thought that a tie against worn mid-century flooring would give him a boner, but he also always assumed he’d be able to _see_ his boners, so sometimes life took turns he didn’t expect.

Clicking the door shut behind him, Dean stepped further into the room. “Hey, Cas,” he said, grinning across at him. “Mind if I join you?”

Castiel’s fingers moved down to his shirt, beginning with the smallest buttons near the neck. “That is what I’m hoping,” he answered. If there was the slightest edge of nervousness to his eyes, it didn’t carry into his rasping voice, so Dean decided he would do him the favor of not mentioning it.

Instead, Dean went straight to the end of the mattress, lowering himself down to it and knee-walking his way up toward Castiel. “Can I help you with that?” 

“Please do,” Castiel said as Dean settled onto his thighs, one knee either side.

Dean would have been lying if he tried to say he wasn’t the _tiniest_ bit nervous about resting his weight on Cas; but Castiel’s hands came straight up to his hips, encouraging him forward, and his smile never faltered. 

Dean reached out, his heart racing as he reached out, pushing at the buttons with the pads of his fingers, slightly clumsy but excited. “You’re sure?” he checked, pausing after the first button to catch Castiel’s eyes and press in, kissing him deeply before pulling back just enough to be able to continue his task, if Cas wanted. “You don’t have to—not now, or not ever. We should talk about this stuff.”

 _Talk? Shut up, Dean,_ Dean thought to himself, annoyed. _You’ve literally got Castiel between your legs for the first time ever, and now you want to talk? Who are you, Sam?_

Castiel raised one thick eyebrow, pushing up off the pillows and wrapping his arms around Dean to bring him in tight. “Yes, Dean. Very sure.” The kiss he gave back to Dean was slick and fiery, his hands roaming Dean’s back, his teeth gently catching Dean’s lower lip.

Dean was putty, unable to help himself from rocking forward into the motion. Pressed up to Cas's front as he was, there wasn’t much hiding Dean’s reaction to the scenario, not from Castiel. Breathless moments later, Castiel pulled back, a dark eyebrow creeping upward, a smirk on his lips.

“Someone’s sleigh is taking flight,” he observed dryly.

“Christmas puns? What happened to you?” Dean snorted, shaking his head against Castiel’s cheekbone, his entire chest glowing. “People used to pray to you, you know.”

Castiel’s entirely inappropriate grin took up the whole of Dean’s vision. “Oh, you still can, if you like.”

Fuck, why did that go straight to Dean’s groin? “That really shouldn’t be hot,” Dean complained mildly, returning to kissing, preferring the taste of Castiel’s mouth, fresh coffee and a hint of mint, to the taste of wasted time.

Dean’s hands made short work of the rest of Castiel’s shirt buttons, before sliding his hands under the collar and spreading his fingers out across the angel’s muscular shoulders as he pushed it off. Castiel helped, shaking the shirt off his arms and casting it aside to join his tie. Then his hands moved forward, coming back to Dean’s hips, this thumbs dancing under the hem of Dean’s stretched-out t-shirt. 

“May I?” Castiel asked, low and wanting. 

For a moment, Dean’s brain screamed obscenities. _Fuck! Hell no, shit, there are so many stretch marks and flabby bits, and you’ll have to suck your belly in the whole time, and—_ but then Castiel kissed him again and none of it mattered anymore.

Dean let go. 

Nodding against Castiel’s lips, he raised his arms, making it easy for Castiel to raise the t-shirt over his head. He chased every inch with hot lips, pressing kisses and praise into Dean’s expansive skin until Dean could feel them, bubbling beneath the surface, reminding him what feeling _sexy_ felt like, what feeling _wanted_ felt like. 

None of which, Dean now knew—in reality, not just in lip-service—had anything to do with the size on the label of his clothes. 

Castiel was certainly more than pleased, stripping Dean down item by item, casting his own clothes away like they were nothing, until they were pressed together, just skin and heat and heaving breaths. Castiel’s hands were everywhere; sliding over every roll, caressing every fresh, red scar that Dean’s skin had given him to say thank you for his service to the children of the world.

Dean felt amazing, and he wanted Cas to feel the same.

“Tell me what you want,” Dean breathed into Castiel’s neck, sucking bruises there that might heal fast, but that would only be an excuse for more. 

In the midst of a breathless moan, it took Castiel a moment to answer, his hips jerking upward. Dean could feel him, hot and ready, pressing into Dean’s thigh, and he was so aroused by it—by the fact that this was _Cas,_ his angel, right here under him—that his own pelvis rocked back in answer automatically. 

“If you’re amenable to it,” Castiel began breathlessly, “there is one thing I’d like to try.” 

“What’s that?” Dean asked, pulling back to gulp in air.

“This,” Castiel answered, powerful arms coming up Dean’s back and pulling him tight to Castiel’s chest, so that he could flip them over on the mattress.

Oh fuck—it was so, so incredibly hot that Cas was stronger than him, Dean realized.

Castiel straddled Dean’s waist, and Dean got to take all of him in; the strong planes of his chest, his surprisingly stacked abs ( _holy shit, Jimmy Novak!)_ , the fine, dark trail of hair that led down from his belly button, drawing Dean’s eyes past the neatly etched Enochian warding on Castiel’s side. Clearly, being resurrected and rebuilt came with tattoo perks. Dean had never asked. Raking his eyes downward, Dean took a moment to be very, very thankful for ol’ Jimmy.

Dean was convinced that he’d love Castiel no matter what vessel he was in; the one thing didn’t equate to the other, he was Cas, always, no matter who he wore. Knowing that was...comforting, strangely. If it was true for Cas, then it was true for him, Dean thought. He was still him.

But fuck, Dean sure got lucky with _this_ vessel. 

“God, Cas,” Dean couldn’t help but whisper, reaching out to trail a finger down the long, heavy length of cock that bobbed in front of him. “This why you said you like this vessel so much, huh?”

Jimmy was a churchgoing man, but that was a sinner’s cock.

Thick, slightly curved, and smooth, Castiel was cut like a good midwestern boy and leaked plenty of glossy precum, his red tip shining glossily in the light of the table lamp off to the side. 

Jimmy was _hung._

Dean couldn’t help the laugh that built in his chest as Castiel _smirked_ down at him.

“I’ll admit,” Castiel confessed, leaning down to speak against Dean’s lips, “Now I have you, it’s a perk.”

Laughing softly, the air between them was warm and charged, and Dean sunk into it, leaning back into the piled pillows. He gave Castiel a little wink, using his signature humor to push through his remaining nerves. 

“So, you sayin’ you want to sit in Santa’s lap, Cas?”

Castiel grinned down at Dean, clearly amused, and it was gummy and wide and perfect. He reached over to the nightstand, tugging open the drawer and reaching inside to pull out a little purple container of lube.

“I’m not going to ask how you knew where that was,” Dean said.

Squirting some out into his hand, Castiel had the good graces to blush just a little as he reached down, pausing before he touched Dean’s cock. “Penetration will be no bother for me in this vessel, my pain threshold isn’t anything like a human’s, but I think this will make the experience more pleasurable for you,” he said.

Dean nodded, agreeing, wishing his belly wasn’t _quite_ so much in the way so that he could have a better view as Castiel’s warm hand slicked him up. Dean reached out, not wanting to miss a minute of touching Castiel’s body. He ran his hands up Castiel’s abdomen, before trailing around to squeeze at his full, firm runner’s ass. 

“I’m okay with you riding me, for sure,” Dean said, pausing to gasp at the pressure already beginning to softly balloon in his core at the way Castiel’s hand was moving, smoothing the lube up and down Dean’s cock. Castiel was gazing downward, enraptured as he jacked Dean off slowly. “But,” Dean picked up, when he could gather the words, “I really want to try at some point, too.”

“You would like me to fuck you, Dean?” Castiel said, low and syrupy, and _jingle bells,_ that was the best damn part of Christmas. Dean had never heard Castiel even say the word ‘ _fuck’_ before, and here he was, saying it like that, with that meaning, with Dean’s cock in his hand.

“Oh, hell yeah,” Dean breathed out. “We should try everything.”

Castiel nodded, but didn’t elaborate on his agreement. Instead he merely shuffled forward, lining himself up, and pressed the head of Dean’s cock between his cheeks. He paused for a moment, looking down at Dean.

For a split second, Dean thought he was unsure—but no. Castiel just took the time to link his fingers with Dean’s, soft and careful, and to catch Dean’s eyes with his own. He moistened his lips, and Dean couldn’t help but mirror it.

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” Castiel murmured, before a slight tremble overtook his thighs and he sank down in a steady, mind-blowing movement.

“AHH—” Dean yelled out, overwhelmed by sensation for a moment as heat and muscle enveloped his cock. He sucked in a gasp, the words important to get out, however choked and breathless they sounded. “I love you, too, Cas—love you a lot.” 

Castiel had clearly meant it when he said that this would be comfortable for him, because he didn’t take any time to adjust, already rocking his hips and using his thighs to raise himself up, inches clear of Dean’s thighs, before dropping straight back down.

The slapping noise of the backs of Castiel’s legs hitting Dean’s hips was raw and loud, the sound and the sight driving Dean just as wild as the tight, squeezing sensation that was rolling up and down his cock as Castiel worked.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Dean panted out, more coherant than Castiel, who could only managed gasped ‘ _ahhs’_ and grunted ‘ _oohs’_ that fell from his lips in a shower. Dean could watch that forever, he decided—though there was no way he was going to last that long.

After several minutes of some of the best sex Dean could recall ever having (thank Chuck, or whoever, for angel stamina), something in Castiel seemed to break, and he slowed, tilting his hips forward, keeping Dean buried deep within him as he leaned in to press their lips together again.

Dean let his eyes flutter closed. He didn’t need to see Castiel; the way they kissed was like there was no other form of communication, saying everything and nothing, two sets of lips in perfect sync. Dean had always loved kissing, but this was something else—this was a kiss that consumed, lips that rejoiced in being recognized, in sharing a private language. Castiel’s kisses were the reason Dean had a mouth, in that instant, the reason he had a heart. 

Castiel, in his whole, was the reason that Dean existed, still, on Earth, not in Hell. And in that moment, Dean had never been more grateful.

Dean wrapped his arms up around Castiel, the awkward shift of his belly between them all but forgotten until Castiel left his lips to nuzzle into his shoulder, his arms coming up to pull Dean off the pillows and sit them up, bouncing in his lap as Dean reclined.

“You’re so _soft_ ,” Castiel said, wrapping Dean into his chest, curling into his neck. 

Dean couldn’t even laugh, only smile.

When they both came, Dean first and then Castiel following, neither wanted it to be over; so they took turns, cleaning each other up, exploring more with hands and lips and tongues until they were ready to begin all over again.

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄

“Watch the corner!” Sam yelled frantically.

Hours into the evening, Dean and Castiel, hand-in-hand, emerged into the war room to see Sam with his hands up, poised to catch Jack at any moment as the kid _whizzed_ his way around the map table.

“DEAN!” Jack practically yelled, his voice trembling with excitement. “Santa gave me rollerblades! AND THE WHEELS LIGHT UP!”

Castiel’s eyes were wide and alarmed, but Dean squeezed his arm reassuringly. “He’ll be fine,” Dean comforted as Jack crashed into the Christmas tree.

From the number of baubles on the floor, it wasn’t the first time. 

“Thank you, Dean!” Jack said, getting back onto his feet properly with Sam’s flustered assistance. 

“Nah,” Dean said, shrugging as the little white lie fell from his lips. “I guess that was just the Forces of Christmas at work. I had no idea what was in there.”

Sam and Castiel both raised eyebrows in his direction, but wisely said nothing.

Castiel moved across to Jack, and as they spoke, Castiel quietly giving his nephil-son a few tips on balance, Dean walked around the table to where Sam stood, still watching Jack like a hawk.

“You could’ve waited to let him open it,” he grumbled, though it was only half-hearted. “Just until me and Cas were here.”

“I needed to distract him,” Sam said sourly. 

Dean wrinkled his brow in question.

“You guys were very loud.”

“Ohhhh…” Dean said, grinning and baring his teeth for a moment in false apology. “Well, uh, sorry,”

“You’re not sorry.”

“Not even a bit.”

Dean watched Castiel lead Jack more slowly around the room, holding his hands and giving him soft instructions while they both looked down at Jack’s feet. It was...pretty adorable, really.

But, Dean had something else he wanted to give Jack, too.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispered to Sam, before ducking out to the garage.

It was a relief to see Baby sat waiting for him, sleek and black and so beautifully car shaped. There had been, of course, a tiny part of Dean that was scared she’d somehow reverted over night. But even Bernard, it seemed, wasn’t that mean. 

From her trunk, Dean pulled out a folded bundle of leather. The jacket was old, and worn, the leather buttery and soft in a way that anything bought new from a store could just never be. It had belonged to his dad in its first life, and it had accompanied him on many hunts and to many bars, through endless hours at Baby’s wheel and through many distant walks in Dean’s memories. Then it had belonged to Dean, his Dad gone, Dean had thought never to return. Even when he had, so briefly, come back into Dean’s life, Dean had kept the jacket. It had a few stains, and the odd small cigarette burn. There was a small slash to the inner lining, one that he’d never gotten around to repairing, from an overly friendly vampire’s makeshift weapon on a rural farm in South Dakota. But, it was a sturdy jacket, a little big for Jack, but ready to be filled with more memories as he grew.

Dean turned the leather in his hands once more before shutting Baby’s trunk, slapping her affectionately on the rump, and making his way back into the war room.

Jack was untethered by then, rolling free, with Castiel and Sam watching warily from either side of the room. 

Clearing his throat, Dean held up the jacket. “Hey, kid,” he said. “Got something else for you—it’s not much. And it’s not, like, wrapped or anything, I don’t even own a fuckin’ bow—”

Fast on his wheels, Jack soared over toward Dean and crushed him in a hug, warm and fond and familial in a way that made something in Dean’s heart shift and crack, sending strange tears to prick the back of his eyes. He blinked them away, grinning down at Jack. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Jack said reverently. “This is _wonderful_. Even better than the rollerblades.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean shrugged, pretending he couldn’t see Sam and Castiel both watching him with huge, soft eyes. “You’re a good kid. You deserve it, Jack.”

Sam and Castiel carried on watching as Dean helped Jack into the jacket in front of the Christmas tree, and quietly told him its story. Jack promised to take care of it, and to give it back to Dean if he didn’t want it any more—which he firmly declared would never be the case, because it was a gift from family.

Dean huffed out a soft laugh at that, not sure he could take much more, and so he shoved Jack away with a wink, propelling him back toward the open floor. “Go on, get rolling around. You need to be able to pick up speed so you can truly traumatize Jody and Donna with those things.”

Jack grinned, not questioning Dean’s sudden switch, and Dean knew he understood.

Castiel’s arm slid around Dean’s waist, his head tilting over slightly into Dean’s.

“That was very nice of you, Dean. How did you know he wanted that?”

Dean shrugged, giving Castiel a wink. “Magic.”

Castiel smiled softly. “Well, magic has its uses. Though we’ll spend the whole year researching how to free you from it, if we have to.”

“I appreciate that,” Dean said, honestly. “Though, I guess it’s not so bad. Not that I wanna ever do that again, but...giving gifts is pretty fun.” 

Castiel beamed wordlessly back at him, and Dean turned his head to press a kiss to Castiel’s temple, ignoring the way Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. His grumpiness was a poor cover for the happy smile he gave them both before turning his attention very pointedly to Jack.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a gift for you Dean,” Castiel said, very solemnly. “It doesn’t seem fair that Santa gets to grant so many Christmas wishes, and get nothing in return.”

Dean reached up, lifting Castiel’s head from his shoulder so that he could press a long, meaning-filled kiss to Castiel’s lips, Sam and Jack be damned.

“It’s okay. You gave me everything I’ve ever wanted,” Dean whispered. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“And,” Jack announced, grinning as he sped past them, arms flailing, with Sam in swift pursuit, “to all a good night!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I have warned for Christmas cheese in amongst the Christmas crack? xD
> 
> I hope that you all enjoyed! We still have an epilogue to come, from the amazing son_of_a_bitch_spn_family, and then...that's it, we have to leave our Christmas crack babies to live happily ever after. (Or at least, argue a little less than they do on the TV.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> \- Mal <3


	9. Santa Claus is Coming to Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Year Later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, the ending of this super fun story! We all had so much energy for this concept from day one, and it was so lovely working with these awesome humans. We appreciate all the amazing feedback, and as the story comes to a close, we want to wish you a happy New Year! 
> 
> Without further ado...
> 
> Enjoy ;)

For all that Dean had ever done for Sam——from bringing him back to life, to making sure he always had someone watching his back——it felt frighteningly close to being all for nothing. Because Dean was about to murder his little brother. 

"Look, I can literally jog circles around you," Sam said, not even sounding winded as he held good on his taunt, jogging _backwards_ in a loop around Dean with a bright smile. 

Dean wheezed a puff of air and made half-assed swipe in Sam's general direction. "When I fucking catch you, you're _dead."_

"Gotta catch me first," Sam teased, winking as he picked up his pace. 

Dean couldn't formulate a response over the sound of his own heavy panting, so he just ducked his head and tried his best to match Sam's speed. Running, as a rule, was not his thing. He did it, of course——he _had_ to as a Hunter. But running for your life was wildly different from running _miles_ at the ass crack of dawn because your little brother was a fucking freak. Waking up to run along as the sun rose was all fine and good in _theory,_ but it was a bitch to appreciate when his lungs screamed in protest. 

Sam teased him every morning, but Dean knew how much he enjoyed having a running partner. And for all his teasing, Sam was damn good at pushing Dean to go further and faster than he thought he could. 

They'd been running together for nearly a year now, though Dean could hardly believe it. He didn't feel like he was getting any better; Sam assured him that he definitely was. To be fair, Dean could run a few miles now and didn't feel like he was going to pass out, so maybe Sam was right. 

Running had quickly become a bonding experience that Dean detested and cherished in equal measure. At first, it was just to get rid of all the extra weight that being Santa had gained him. On top of eating nothing but falafel, chickpeas, and quinoa for a couple of weeks——which meant that Dean practically starved for a little while——he also added running into his daily routine outside of cases. Looking back, Dean couldn't believe he stuck to that fucking horrible diet for so long, even though he still sometimes snuck roasted chickpeas as a snack when Sam wasn't around to call him out on it. What's even _more_ surprising was that he stuck with the running. 

As soon as Dean's body resorted to its original form, he had no technical reason to. Between the magic of Christmas wearing off and his rigorous desire to get back to how he was _before,_ it had taken a little over a month to return to normal. Mostly. He still had some softness and curves to him that he wasn't entirely convinced was there before the Santa Incident, and his beard grew a lot quicker and fuller than it used to. But, thankfully, he was back to his old self and eating greasy burgers like it was his religion. 

He could have stopped running after that. Thing about _that_ was...well, Sam loved that he tagged along, and Dean was never good at refusing Sam much, especially not when it meant a lot to him. 

Dean was maybe, possibly, _just_ a little bit regretting that right about now. 

"Dude, only a bit further and we can walk back," Sam called, throwing him an amused look over his shoulder, keeping a steady jog like it was easy. 

Dean felt like he was going to pass out. "No. Nope, Sam, I'm _done!"_ He came to an abrupt stop and groaned as he bent in half, bracing his hands on his knees. "I'm calling it quits." 

"Remember, over your head," Sam chided gently, turning around and jogging back to Dean. "And that's fine. You made progress today." 

"Yeah?" Dean squinted as he lifted his hands up to his head, his chest heaving. "How… How much?" 

Sam grinned. "You went an extra mile." 

"Jesus, fuck," Dean mumbled, eyes sinking closed as Sam started digging in his stupid, little fanny pack to grab some water. "You're gonna kill me. I'm getting too old for this shit." 

"Oh, shut up. You've seen an improvement in your life, I can tell," Sam chirped, passing Dean his water bottle. "You wouldn't do it otherwise." 

Dean sipped his water, as Sam had taught him to do, and his breathing started to settle. "Only reason I do it is 'cause your annoying ass wakes me up every fucking morning and _harps_ on me until I do. Plus, it does help my sex life _loads._ Endurance for days, man." 

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Okay, I coulda went forever without knowing that." 

"Makes me limber too." Dean grinned mockingly and went about stretching, waggling his eyebrows. "You wouldn't _believe_ some of the positions Cas can fold me into. Dude, it's like——" 

"Gross, Dean!" Sam barked, cringing as Dean started cackling. "Come on, man, seriously. I do _not_ need to know that shit. I mean, good for you and —— and Cas, I guess...but _ew."_

"You're too easy," Dean said, chuckling and shaking his head as they fell into step as they started heading back towards the Bunker. 

"So, uh, on the topic of improvements in life and stuff...there's something I wanted to talk to you about," Sam murmured cautiously. 

Dean threw Sam a warning look. "If you put another fucking _addition_ on Baby, I swear to——" 

"No, no, it's just…" Sam coughed and reached back to scratch at his head, grimacing. "You know Christmas is coming up. Only a couple weeks away." 

"Yeah, and what about it?" 

"What are you thinking?" 

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes at Sam. 

"Well, I know you got a little bit better about it last year after the whole, uh, Santa Incident. I'm just wondering how you wanna go about it this year. You know how Jack is, and Cas definitely got a _lot_ fonder of the holiday after it pretty much brought y'all together." Sam shrugged, waving his hands around a little wildly. "I guess I'm just asking if you're gonna be a Grinch again this year." 

Dean rolled his eyes. "You stress too much, Sam. I ain't gonna freak out about the festive cheer, chill out. Maybe Cas isn't the only one who's a little fond of it, you know. _Don't_ tell him that." 

Sam snorted. "Fair enough. In _that_ case, I want to decorate the Bunker. And not like we usually do. Just something nice for Jack, maybe actual ornaments like Bernard and the other elves did last year. And an _actual_ Christmas dinner, not just some burgers and beer. Also, we should give Jack an allowance to get us gifts; he complained about that last year." 

"Dude, whatever y'all wanna do, I don't _care._ Go all out if you want." Dean waggled a finger at Sam, grunting in annoyance. "But I am _not_ dressing up like Santa Claus." 

"Not even for Jack?" Sam asked, but his lips were curling up in amusement. 

"Only person I'm dressing up like Santa Claus for is Cas, and trust me, it won't be in the traditional sense," Dean said with a lecherous grin. 

Sam groaned. "Dude, come _on!"_

"What can I say? Cas _really_ likes Christmas. I'll be Santa for him and give him my present," Dean said, waggling his eyebrows and hip-thrusting the air.

"I literally hate you," Sam snapped, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. "I don't have to deal with you. I can _outrun_ you. Freakin' nasty——" 

Dean laughed loudly as Sam took off in a run, and he shook his head. "Too fuckin' easy." 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄ 

Frowning slightly, Dean ran his fingers through his wet hair. It was getting a little long, so it must have been about time to cut it again. Castiel could do it, Castiel _liked_ doing it, and he always did a good job. 

Dean sighed and dropped his hand as he entered his room. Castiel was in the exact same position that Dean left him in earlier that morning. Laying flat on his side of the bed, a pillow over his face. Before Dean had left, he'd tossed his own pillow and it landed on Castiel's face, and Castiel clearly hadn't been bothered to remove it. 

"You alive under there?" Dean joked, moving over to fall in the bed beside Castiel and lift the pillow. 

Castiel squinted at him. "It would take much more than a pillow to end me, Dean." 

"Hmm, good to know. I can scratch that off my list, at least." Dean reached up to trace one of Castiel's eyebrows as it wrinkled. 

"Is that a list for things for you to try and kill me, or is it a list to reassure you of the ways I can't die?" 

"Wouldn't you like to know?" 

"I have an idea," Castiel said gently, smiling slightly. 

Dean snorted and poked Castiel's nose. "Oh, you think you got me all figured out, huh? Just 'cause I love you, you think I'm soft or some shit. I'll have you know that I'm tired of all this domestic bliss. I need a way out, Cas, what else am I gonna do?" 

"Well, you only had to ask," Castiel replied easily, leaning up like he was about to vacate the bed. 

Dean absolutely could not have that, so he grunted and flattened his torso over Castiel's. "I was just kidding, man. My way out is straight through, you know that. Only way I'm gonna be free of you is if I'm dead. My regular ol' ball and chain." 

"Claire says that saying promotes heteronormative structures fully intended on insulting the wife in a marital agreement." 

"You asked _Claire?"_

"Well, you refused to tell me what it meant. I didn't realize I _was_ a wife in this scenario, but——" 

"Dude, two dudes _can't_ be wives. We're husbands." 

Castiel hummed a short laugh. "I wasn't aware that we got married." 

"Well, no, that's——I didn't mean that. I'm just _saying,_ if we did...we'd _be_ husbands," Dean corrected hastily, clearing his throat. "You know what I meant." 

"I do," Castiel agreed indulgently. "And I also enjoy watching you struggle, just a bit." 

"You're such an asshole," Dean muttered, watching Castiel smile wide and bright. 

When he smiled like that, it was a damn wonder that Dean didn't go blind from how utterly _perfect_ it was. The urge to kiss it off his face never went away and only grew stronger every time he saw it. He gave into that desire almost instantly, pushing himself up to press a kiss to Castiel's lips. The smile widened and Dean's own lips curled up in response, and they were doing more quiet laughing than kissing, but Dean enjoyed that just as much. 

"MORNING!" 

Castiel and Dean jerked apart as Jack went _flying_ past their door, blitzing down the hallway on his beat-up rollerblades that truly had seen better days. He was there and gone in a flash, but his blink-and-you-miss-it presence pretty much signified the start to the day. That was usually how things began these days, with Jack whizzing around in his skates like a pro. 

"I always worry he'll break his neck," Castiel murmured as Dean rolled off of him. 

Dean tsked quietly. "Sometimes I pray that he does," he grumbled. 

"Dean!" Castiel scolded mildly, smacking him lightly on the shoulder, but there was amusement in his bright, blue eyes. 

"What? I still ain't over the scrape he left in Baby's paint last week. I _told_ him not to bring them damn skates on hunts!" 

"Well, it did come in handy against the Wraith. Besides, he buffed the scrape right out." 

"Still know it happened," Dean muttered, huffing quietly and doing his damndest to hide the smile trying to rise on his face. "Ain't it about time he, uh, lost those skates, anyway?" 

"You can't take his skates, Dean. He adores them." 

"Whoever got them for him should be _shot."_

"Dean," Castiel said slowly, _"you_ got them for him." 

"Well...whatever." Dean rolled his eyes and ignored Castiel's amused glance as he pushed himself out of the bed. "This year, he isn't getting another pair." 

"Unless _Santa_ decides to——" 

"Cas, angel, no offense, but please shut the hell up. We're not speaking it into existence, 'kay?" 

"Dean, human, full offense, but please realize that I'm going to say what I like." 

Dean pursed his lips. "Yeah, okay, fair enough." 

Castiel gave him a pat on the shoulder in consolation, like he was fully aware that he had Dean by the balls, or _"whipped"_ as Claire liked to say, with the sound effect and everything. Dean would probably be upset about that if it didn't have some truth to it. Castiel turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean to follow him at a distance so he could properly watch his ass. Whipped? Sure, but for damn good reason. 

Sam made a sound of disgust as they entered the foyer, catching Dean in the act, but Dean just grinned at his prude of a little brother. Castiel took a step back as Jack came whipping past them, barely paying attention as he held a string of popcorn above his head like an offering to the gods. 

"Popcorn on a string? Really?" Dean deadpanned, turning a flat look on Sam. 

Sam shrugged. "You said anything, and Jack had already started this in his room. He was hiding it in case you said no. You should see the amount he has; he started in _October."_

Dean heaved a sigh. 

"Well, it could be worse," Castiel said. 

And yes, it truly could. It went unspoken how much worse it could honestly be. 

It had taken them all a couple of weeks to find a solution to Dean's little——or _big,_ honestly —— Santa problem. At first, there hadn't seemed to be an answer at all, and for a long time _after_ they found an answer, Sam hadn't been sure it worked. But every curse could be broken, as Rowena had assured them over the phone, and whatever spell they used seemed to help Dean speed up on returning to normal. He fully believed that it worked because he couldn't afford not to. Becoming Santa again was not an option, and the spell they used to break the curse was apparently powerful enough to reinforce even Castiel's belief that it wouldn't happen again. 

Dean was more inclined to believe Castiel than anyone else. Because out of everyone——besides Jack, perhaps——he was the one who was saddest to see Santa-Dean go. He'd apparently really taken to Dean's body, all the curves and rolls on it. Even now, Castiel assured Dean that he'd loved Dean in that form just as he did in his regular one. 

Dean often wondered what poor soul would take his place in the role as Santa, or if Bernard would run Christmas with the rest of the elves. He tried not to entertain the possibility that Christmas would be cancelled because he broke the curse. 

Either way, the curse was broken, and Dean wasn't going to dwell on it. 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄ 

Kansas usually got a lot of snow around Christmas. Four or five inches, at most. Dean always liked that Lebanon was hot during the summer and cold during the winter, but never an extreme of either. It was always manageable. 

This winter was an exception. 

Eight inches, according to the local news, and Dean was contemplating whether or not to invest in tire chains for Baby. If anything, the snow was a mild inconvenience for him, and due to his travelling around the US, he'd definitely seen worse. Sam didn't have much to say on the matter, and Castiel didn't even seem to notice, but Jack was _ecstatic._

"Dean, will you come make a snowman with me?" Jack blurted out excitedly, hopping in place. He looked ridiculous in his knitted hat, scarf, and gloves while wearing the leather jacket Dean had given him. Poor kid was gonna freeze in the damn thing if he went outside, but Dean knew it was a losing battle to try and convince him to wear any other coat. 

"I'm kinda busy," Dean said, gesturing to the stove where he was cooking. 

Jack's face fell. "Sam said the same thing." 

"Didja ask Cas? He doesn't even get cold," Dean pointed out. 

"He said he didn't know how," Jack mumbled. 

For some inexplicable reason, Dean's heart clenched violently in his chest. He cleared his throat and tossed his head back to yell, "SAM!" 

Jack tilted his head, as eerily similar to Castiel as always. "He already said——" 

"Yeah, yeah, I know what he said. Go get Cas and tell him I said go outside. I'll meet ya out there." 

"Oh! Okay! Yes, I'll——I will do that!" 

Dean couldn't stop the tiny smile at the corners of his mouth if he tried. Instead, he ducked his head and went back to scooping the potatoes out of the grease. Jack was a good kid, a really good kid, and Dean was often surprised by how much he genuinely loved him. Jack was his family, his _kid,_ and Dean always ended up stunned by that when he allowed himself to really think about it. 

"What now?" Sam walked into the kitchen with a scowl, waving his iPad pointedly. "Kinda in the middle of something here." 

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever it is, you can do it one-handed. Finish up supper while I take Jack outside. I gotta teach him and Cas how to make snowmen." 

"Whatcha cooking?" Sam asked distractedly, moving over to the stove. 

"Something you'll bitch about," Dean said cheerfully, clapping Sam on the shoulder and heading to his room to get dressed for the weather. 

The thing about winter clothes was that they were bulky and heavy and he hated them. But it kept his nuts from drawing up into his body, so he sucked it up and prepared to brave the cold. 

Castiel and Jack were already waiting outside, and they both looked ridiculous in their own right. Jack was undoubtedly cold with just the leather jacket as coverage for his torso, but he seemed to be compensating for the lack of heat by bouncing in place and shivering. Castiel, on the other hand, didn't look cold at all, despite the fact that he was in nothing but one of Dean's t-shirts and a pair of his own jeans. Snow was already dusting his hair and his vessel was reacting to the cold by blotting pink over his nose, making his eyes brighter than ever. 

Fuck, he was so gorgeous. 

Dean had no reason to keep that to himself, so he didn't. "You are really beautiful, ya know that?" he asked softly as he moved over to draw close to Castiel, wrapping his arms around him. 

"As are you," Castiel replied simply, but there was a slight bashfulness to his smile. 

"You look cold." 

"I'm not." 

"I could warm you up." 

"I'm not——well, if you insist." 

Dean chuckled. "Your lips are lookin' a little blue there, sweetheart. That's where I'll start." 

Castiel tilted his head forward indulgently, patiently waiting for Dean to carry through with his promise. Dean was more than happy to do that. Leaning forward, he brushed his lips over Castiel's, pressing on despite the fact that they were _actually_ cold. But Dean was good at keeping his promises these days, and Castiel's lips were warm and soft under his in no time. 

Castiel stuffed his hands in Dean's jacket pockets, drawing him closer so he could deepen the kiss, and Dean was one hundred percent okay with that. He quickly forgot what the fuck he was doing outside, didn't even care to remember, and he was fully on board with standing outside in the snow to kiss Castiel until summer. With a flick of his tongue over Dean's bottom lip, Castiel pulled a moan deep from Dean's chest, making the sound reverberate between them until they were just groaning into each other's mouths with mindless intensity. 

"Uh, Castiel, Dean...not—not to break this up or anything, but the snowman?" 

Dean suddenly remembered that Jack was outside and he sighed as Castiel pulled back. For a moment, they just leaned into each other, foreheads resting together, and they breathed. 

"Later," Castiel promised. 

"Yeah," Dean agreed roughly, pulling away and clearing his throat. 

Jack was beaming at them. "Can we build a snowman now? I brought Sam's carrots out here——don't tell him that——and popped all the buttons off of the old flannel in the laundry room. No one was wearing it." 

"Yeah, that'll work," Dean assured him, flapping a hand. "We need some sticks too." 

"There's some by the entrance," Castiel murmured. "I'll go get them." 

Dean watched him go with a small smile before turning towards Jack, clapping his gloved hands together loudly. "Okay, so I've done this all of four times, but it's pretty easy, if not time-consuming." 

"When'd you do it?" Jack asked brightly, watching Dean like a very eager hawk. 

"Oh, ah…" Dean swallowed, his stomach clenching at Jack's question. "It's——you know, it really doesn't matter. It happened and I'm glad it did since I can teach you now." 

Dean didn't want to dwell on the past, not anymore. Sometimes memories from his time with Ben and Lisa would pop up unannounced, like right now, and it happened more often nowadays. He figured it had something to do with the family dynamic that had softened with Jack's presence. He was a kid who Dean was helping raise; there was bound to be similarities or call-backs. But there wasn't a point in telling Jack the story of building a snowman with Ben while Lisa looked on from the kitchen window, smiling bright and warm. That was the past, and Dean was just thankful to have the family he did now, one he could share the same gentle moments with. Bittersweet as they could be, he never let anything come in the way of how lucky he was now. 

Jack bobbed his head easily, perhaps sensing that Dean didn't want to talk about it. "Alright, so what do we need to do to start?" 

"Well, first, you need a base, right? You gotta…" Dean trailed off as Castiel came lumbering over with an arm-ful of sticks. "Cas, how many snowmen do you think we're making? Jeez, nevermind, just put 'em in a pile over there." 

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Yes, dear," he said flatly and let the sticks tumble to the ground at his feet, nowhere near where Dean said to put them. 

"I love you," Dean said, laughter bubbling up in his throat, a smile stretching across his face. 

"I love you too," Castiel replied, his face softening as it always did when Dean told him that. 

Dean won a lot of arguments with those three words, which worked out for him because they were true. It also made it a lot easier to say when he knew that Castiel would say it back while looking like he was melting. Gentle moments. Dean had come to love them. 

"The base," Jack prompted, reaching over to poke Dean to get him back on track. 

"Go on," Castiel urged with a small smile, waving his hand, "show our son how to make a snowman." 

Dean's heart was doing funny things in his chest, stuck somewhere between fluttering helplessly and clenching painfully. Moments like that, moments that belonged to him, that he'd earned...they made him feel boneless in the best way. Light and floaty, so fucking happy that it couldn't be real, and sometimes so guilty for needing it more with _this_ family than the one he had to give up with Ben and Lisa. 

God, he missed them sometimes, missed them in the way someone misses a friend they hadn't thought about in years. He'd never go out of his way to search them out, but the nostalgia stung sweetly all the same. He hoped they were out there making a snowman of their own, feeling as happy and loved as he did right now. 

"Alright, Jack, this is what you gotta do…" 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄ 

Christmas was quickly taking over the Bunker, despite the fact that it was still a week and a half away. Jack was having himself a _ball._ Between the explosion of tinsel and ornaments and his ferocious stubbornness to do all his decorating while on rollerblades, Jack had the place looking like a Christmas disaster. 

However, the kid was pleased as all hell and more susceptible to listen to them——for fear of being on the naughty list because they were not above using that threat——so Dean didn't pay much attention to it. 

It wasn't that Dean had done a complete turnaround about Christmas, but he was definitely more inclined to enjoy it when he wasn't its goddamn daddy. Being Father Christmas made him enjoy the finer things in life, like never having to eat cookies for every meal and finding the mockery in a buttload of tinsel. His stance on Christmas music was mostly the same, however. That day when he'd had to go to the mall and ended up in jail still stuck in his mind as the worst thing that happened to him——being haunted by Christmas music and drunk Santas was just too much, definitely the most torturous thing that he had ever experienced. Definitely. 

But Dean was determined to be better overall this year. Castiel truly had come to love the holiday, and Dean was fond of it for all the same reasons that Castiel loved it so much. It was the time of year that they took the plunge into being _them,_ and it made up for every other horrible part. So, he was striving to be less Grinch and more...well, not Santa, but maybe Ebenezer Scrooge, so to speak. 

That's why, when Jack asked him to take him shopping for Christmas gifts, Dean didn't immediately lash out. Instead, very carefully, he said," Maybe see if Sam and Cas will take you." 

Jack shook his head. "Nope. Sam already took me so I could get your present. Now I need to get Sam and Castiel's presents." 

"Ah," Dean said delicately, "well, can't you, like, order them online or something?" 

"No." Jack frowned at him. "Have _you_ been Christmas shopping yet?" 

"Well, no, not yet, but——" 

"Perfect! Let's go now." 

Dean sighed. "Jack——" 

"Last one to Baby doesn't get to drive!" Jack bellowed and snatched the Impala's keys from the table, bounding away with a loud whoop. 

"Naughty list!" Dean called after him, sailing to his feet. "Naughty list for _life!_ And trust me, I was Santa, I know these things!" 

They ended up going to a couple of thrift stores, rather than some place that would be packed full of people. Jack was a great kid, but he didn't get out much, and social situations freaked him out a little when they weren't on cases. 

Dean didn't mind thrift stores as a whole. They were great for finding things for cheap. However, it wasn't always easy to find _gifts_ for people. Or he thought that, until he came across four different things that Sam would like. He had the money and the selfish desire to make up for years with nothing to give, so he ended up buying them all. Jack was easy to buy for. He'd recently come into a deep appreciation for Chuck Norris —— which Dean was _deeply_ proud of——so any old movies with him as the star was the way to go. Plus, Dean got him a new pair of skates because he was weak. And he managed to get all of Jack's gifts while Jack wasn't paying attention. 

Castiel, however… 

Dean was at a loss. Nothing seemed to be jumping out at him as a gift that Castiel would like. Castiel tended to like moments and memories and connection more than physical objects, though he did like to collect small, broken trinkets to try and put back together in his downtime, which was all levels of unfairly cute. But Dean thought it was counterproductive to buy him something _broken._

He looked at every thrift store and came up with zilch. It was starting to grate on his nerves, and he was genuinely upset about it. If anyone knew Castiel, it was Dean, but if he couldn't even buy a present for him...what did that _mean?_ He was getting a little desperate, much as hated it. 

"Hey, uh, Jack," Dean muttered carefully as they drove to the next stop——a pawn shop. "You mind telling me what you got Cas?" 

"You're not going to tell him, are you?" Jack asked suspiciously, complete with the same narrow-eyed look Castiel wore. 

Dean clicked his tongue. "No, I'm just askin' because I'm curious." 

"A Polaroid camera!" Jack said brightly, looking giddy about his gift-picking. "He's going to _love_ it. He can take pictures of everything he wants and it'll come out right then!" 

"That's...a really good gift, Jack," Dean murmured weakly, throat bobbing. 

Jack beamed. "What did you get him?" 

"I——I haven't worked that out yet," Dean admitted with a wince. "I dunno what he'd want. I know gifts are just supposed to be about the thought you put into 'em, but Christmas is kinda special for us, I guess." He ignored the heat crowding up his neck into his cheeks. "I just want the gift to be good, ya know? Last year——well, I kinda gave him...me?" 

"Is that what he wanted last year? Just you?" Jack asked, blinking slowly, calm as ever. That kid wouldn't hurt a fly, or judge it either. 

Dean crooked a smile. "Yeah, s'what he said. But this year, he must want _something."_

"Maybe he wants you still," Jack suggested. 

"Well, he's already got that." 

"You can give the same gift, just different. I'll probably get Castiel a photo album next year, to add onto this year's gift. It's the same thing, kind of." 

Dean blinked. "Huh," he said slowly. "Y'know, kid, you're a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for." 

"Funny," Jack mused, "Castiel says the same thing about you." 

Dean chuckled and shook his head, whipping them into the pawn shop. Jack pretty much forgot about the conversation instantly in favor of hopping out of the car to buy the last of his gifts. Dean followed at a more subdued pace, pondering how exactly he was going to add onto last year's gift for Castiel. 

He planned as he walked around the pawn shop, mind going a mile a minute. Maybe it was cheesy, but he could do it if Castiel would enjoy it. Getting naked and wearing nothing but a bow had passed his mind before as a joke, but Castiel would probably think it was _hilarious._ Or, maybe he'd be genuinely into it, take it completely serious and use Dean as his gift however he wanted to. Castiel _did_ have a certain thing for Christmas themed sex jokes; he still made Christmas puns when he was in a particularly good mood. And Dean really didn't know of anything else that could be something Castiel would want. 

That seemed a very conceited thing to think, but Dean kept drawing a blank. Even still, he picked up a candle to get for him because he liked to burn them in Dean's room. It didn't feel like enough, but Dean knew he still had time to work it out. 

Jack was ready to go pay, so Dean held his one candle and ignored the slightly uncertain looks that Jack was sending his way. They had to wait in line and Dean busied himself by looking at the jewelry case to pass the time and avoid whatever comment Jack clearly wanted to make about the candle. 

As they stepped up to the counter, Dean peered down at the rows of rings and _froze._

The thing about pawn shops were that they were crap shoots. You never knew what you'd find in them, and a lot of the stuff was being sold so cheap because they were broken. And the jewelry usually wasn't the best, but they were affordable. Dean didn't care about money; if he wanted to, he could max out all his fake credit cards and buy Castiel a ring with the biggest diamond in the state. 

If he wanted to. 

Dean wasn't sure how to explain the feeling he got when he caught sight of the ring, even to himself. It was the same feeling he got every time he looked at Baby, or Castiel, or the Bunker, or his own gun. That feeling of _that's it, that's the one._ It just _fit,_ somehow, and Dean instantly knew. If not for this ring, he probably wouldn't have stopped at all, would've just bought that candle and left. 

There wasn't anything special about the ring. It was a simple silver band with twisted engravings on it. In fact, it was a pretty dingy ring, a little banged up and could use a cleaning from what he saw. 

But even still, Dean took one look at it and breathed out, "That's Cas' ring." 

"I'm sorry, sir, but anything sold to us is——" The man behind the counter jerked back when Dean slammed a hand down on the glass. 

"No, no," Dean said quickly, "it's not——I need to buy this ring. Can I——what size is it?" 

The man blinked rapidly. "That's a size ten, sir. Would you like to purchase it with the candle?" 

"Fuck the candle," Dean blurted out, throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly. "Just——just the ring and the biggest bow you've got on hand." 

"Dean," Jack said cautiously. 

"Not a word to Cas, you hear me?" Dean muttered, watching the man remove the ring from the case. "Jack, you gotta promise me. This is a surprise, okay?" 

Jack hummed. "You're going to marry Castiel?" 

"I'm gonna ask if he wants to," Dean admitted softly, taking in a deep breath, clenching the counter with both hands as the man deposited the ring into a black, velvet ring box. 

"I promise I won't say anything," Jack swore dutifully, eyeing Dean thoughtfully. "Are you going to ask on Christmas?" 

"Bad idea, man," the guy behind the counter said, dipping low to dig around for the bow Dean had requested. He peeked over the counter to look up at Dean with a somber expression. "Take it from me, if your person says no, you'll hate Christmas forever." 

"Castiel won't say no," Jack snapped, looking at the man with a harsh intensity that _dared_ him to deny it. 

The man slapped the bow on the counter. "Hey, do what you do. Are y'all getting anything else?" 

Dean bit his lip and considered the man's words. Castiel could say no, despite what Jack believed, and the mere thought hurt Dean in ways he was not at all prepared for. Gingerly, he sat the candle on the counter by the bow and ring box. 

"A back-up plan, and whatever the kid has got." 

Jack scowled. 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄ 

Dean never wanted to get married. Correction, he never _expected_ to get married. In his life, marriage never seemed like an option, and there was never someone he would've wanted to propose to. His life with Lisa was the closest thing he got to marriage, and he remembered how well he'd settled into that, if not for his need to be a hunter. 

Castiel was an entirely different thing. They'd never talked about marriage. In fact, the only time it ever came up was when Emmanuel had been married to Daphne or when Castiel had accidentally gotten himself married off to the Djinn queen—both of which left a knot of jealousy in Dean's chest. For all he knew, Castiel didn't care about marriage at all. 

But Dean was a mid-western boy who loved his guns and his car and women and killing monsters, and he'd be lying if he tried to say that marriage wasn't something he thought of as special. Maybe it was how he was raised, or maybe it was how every movie and person in the world painted it as something sacred, even if it often ended in turmoil. But Dean had long stopped thinking of him and Castiel as something that could crash and burn; at this point, all he thought was that they had nowhere to go but forward. And some tender part of him, the same part that smiled at little kids and ate pie because it reminded him of a time when hugs were normal, _that_ gentle part of him wanted to put a ring on the love of his life's finger. 

Naturally, all of this was hitting him at once and he was panicking about it. Not like he didn't know he wanted to spend the rest of forever with Castiel if he could, but this felt different, somehow. Dean was pretty shitty at making sense of his own feelings, even now after getting better, and working through _this_ panic wasn't something he was fully equipped to do. That's why he went to Sam. 

Halfway into their run, Dean came to an abrupt halt to catch his breath, wheezing more than normal. He'd clearly been eating his panic because he was pretty sure he'd put on an extra five pounds in the last day. Perhaps that's why Sam looked disappointed when he turned to find Dean at a halt. 

"Dean, come on, we gotta keep pushing. We got a long way to go until—" 

"I need your help," Dean blurted out, swallowing thickly and standing to full height, reaching in his pocket to finger the ring box. 

Sam blinked. "Uh, okay? I mean, if you're struggling _that_ much, we could walk for awhile. It's not that big of a deal, no need to look so freaked out." 

Dean didn't know how to say what he needed to say, so he pulled out the ring box and held it out, watching Sam's eyes bulge. "Here." 

"What is this?" Sam asked, reaching out to carefully pick the ring box up and open it. His eyes went impossibly wider. "Dean, this is a _ring."_

"Well, _yeah._ What the fuck did you think it was? That's what the box holds, dumbass," Dean snapped, prickly and on edge. 

"This is…" Sam peered at the ring, gently picking it up and looking at it curiously. He slowly put it back and looked up to stare at Dean. "It's for Cas, isn't it? You're gonna—you're actually gonna propose?" 

"Maybe. I don't— Yes, I want to," Dean muttered, crossing his arms and clearing his throat. "I'm just not sure how to...you know." 

"Ask?" Sam offered, a smile splitting his face so wide that wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. He looked so _happy._ "Dude, this is great! How did you—I mean, how'd you know?" 

Dean shrugged awkwardly, a deep blush rising in his cheeks despite the cold. "Just saw the ring and—and it was his, Sammy. I know it's his. I just gotta figure out how to give it to him." 

"That's actually really freaking _sweet,"_ Sam murmured, his face softening. He gave a small, choked laugh. "Shit, I never thought you'd, you know, be okay enough to ever get married. You've always been really closed off, but Cas is really the one, huh? You really do love him." 

"You had doubts about that?" Dean asked weakly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Sam could be all emotional if he wanted to, but Dean _refused_ to fucking cry. 

"No, not really, but this is…" Sam trailed off and closed the lid to the ring box. He was smiling wide as ever, eyes practically twinkling. "I'm really happy for you, Dean. You know how you're gonna ask?" 

"That's kinda my problem," Dean admitted in a helpless croak, staring at Sam with wide eyes. "I don't know if—if there's a good time, or if it needs to be some big production, or if—" 

"Hey, hey, relax," Sam said gently, snorting quietly and moving over to pat Dean's shoulder. "You're spiralling, man. First of all, this is Cas we're talking about. He won't need a flash mob or the top of a ferris wheel, so relax. And the time thing is all on you; whenever feels right." 

Dean swallowed again, rasping a horrified, "Oh god, what if he says _no?"_

"Dude, what planet are you _on?_ The day Cas tells you no to getting engaged is the day I call up Lucifer and offer to be his manservant." 

"Lucifer is dead." 

_"Exactly,"_ Sam said cheerfully. 

"Still freaking out here, Sam," Dean gritted out, looking up at him in pure panic. 

Sam rolled his eyes. "You love him, right? You want to spend the rest of your terrible, crazy, perfect life with him. You want to give him your last name. That's all true, yes?" 

"Yes." 

"So, why are you scared?" 

"I'm not—" Dean stopped, averting his eyes while he visibly bit back the lie. He gave a weak shrug. "No matter what, he could—he could say no." 

"You're right," Sam said easily, passing the box over with a grin. "But the question is if he's worth taking that chance on." 

Dean bristled at the mere _idea_ that Castiel wasn't, and then immediately settled once he realized that pretty much solved all his problems. No use in freaking out if he was gonna fucking do it _anyway._ If anyone deserved to be wanted like this, in this way, it was Castiel, and Dean would be damned if he allowed his own fear to talk him out of that. 

Dean set his shoulders and cleared his throat, feeling slightly better. "Thanks, Sammy." 

"What are brothers for?" Sam chirped pleasantly, clearly very pleased with this entire situation. "Now, unless you're gonna go propose right now, we have three more miles to go. So, what's it gonna be?" 

"Fuck… Let's go." 

Sam laughed as he started running again, Dean heaving a sigh and following behind. 

Three hours later found Dean back in the Bunker, clean after a shower, and avoiding Castiel like the plague. It was a shitty move, but Dean couldn't even look at him without fumbling over his words, and he was doing his best to keep it together. So, every time Castiel entered the room he was in, Dean fled. 

Dean hid himself in the bathroom, staring at the mirror and giving himself a mental beating. He needed to get his act together and _fast_ because Castiel would only put up with this for so long. They hadn't been this awkward in over a year now, and Castiel wasn't one to keep his opinions to himself if he was annoyed enough to form them. 

Sighing, Dean reached up to scratch at the scruff on his face. His eyebrows drew together as he leaned in closer to examine the hair that had grown so quickly. He'd shaved _before_ his shower but he was already sporting a healthy five o'clock shadow that usually took at least a full day to form, if not more. He leaned forward to look at it closer, squinting at the mirror, only to jerk back as the door banged open. 

"Why are you avoiding me?" Castiel asked firmly, shutting the door and enclosing them in the bathroom with a simple, daunting click. 

Dean's tongue got stuck to the roof of his mouth as he whirled around. "Wha… Avoiding _you?_ Pfft, I would _never._ That's not—no, you're mistaken." 

"You used to be a better liar," Castiel noted, moving closer with a slight frown. "What's going on?" 

"Nothing! I'm not—it ain't a lie. I'm just… I don't know. You're talking crazy talk, Cas." 

"I don't talk crazy." 

"Okay, maybe not," Dean agreed, biting his bottom lip and reaching in his pockets to finger the box, his stomach squirming nervously. "I—I want to ask you something, but...not here." 

Castiel narrowed his eyes into slits. "You require a different setting to explain why you've been acting strange?" 

"Ah...yes." 

"Very well. Where would you like to go?" 

"My room," Dean muttered, rubbing the velvet outside of the box, tracing it obsessively. At this point, he knew every inch of it. 

Castiel huffed quietly but turned on the spot, opening the door and waving Dean through. Shakily, Dean led the way to his room, taking in calming breaths and counting each step on the way. Sam and Jack were down the hall, talking quietly and heading towards Jack's room, probably to grab _more_ popcorn strings for the Christmas tree. Sam took one look at Dean and his eyes widened with genuine excitement as he picked up his pace and dragged Jack into his room, hissing quietly to him with a broad smile. 

Dean took a deep breath and tried to think up some way to make this even a little bit romantic. But he didn't think that Castiel would want something like that. Castiel was practical and he liked the emotions, a genuine connection that made him _feel._ Dean wanted to give him that, wanted to look him in the eyes and give him something he spent years failing to offer. Honesty and vulnerability and pure, undeniable trust. 

He had no fucking clue what he was going to say. 

"Well?" Castiel prompted as soon as Dean's door shut behind them with yet another deafening click. 

Dean surveyed the room slowly, looking over every space. He'd made this place his home and had invited Castiel into it, who'd fit in so seamlessly that it felt even more homely with him there. Dean wouldn't want to sleep on a bed that Castiel wasn't in. He didn't know how good his desk looked with a picture of Castiel until one was put there, and now he couldn't imagine it without one. His closet had been so full without Castiel wearing his clothes. Dean's entire _life_ had been lacking without Castiel there to walk alongside him through it. 

Suddenly, Dean wasn't scared at all. Nothing about this, about opening himself up, about risking getting hurt, about taking this step—nothing about any of it was terrifying anymore. He was nervous because he wanted to get it right, but that was it. 

"Cas," Dean said, slowly turning around to peer at him closely, letting Castiel see how utterly serious he was currently. "Castiel… No. _Cas,_ you know I'm in love with you, right? Have been for a long time and will be until my final breath." 

Castiel's face relaxed as he did that melting thing he always did. "Oh, well, yes, I do know that. And I'm sure you know that I—" 

"That's not what this is about," Dean cut him off, taking a deep breath. "I—I don't have a whole lot to offer. I'm an asshole, and I say inappropriate shit, and I'm kind of a hopeless idiot when it comes to handling my own fucked-up feelings. But I will—I'll treat you right, and I'll do anything to make you happy, and I just… I love you more than I'll ever be able to say." 

"Dean." Castiel blinked, _hard._ He took in a deep breath, clearly sensing the heaviness of the moment, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Dean, what is this about?" 

"I went out shopping for Christmas gifts, and I know it's a little early, but—but I want to give you one of yours now." Dean gripped the box in his pocket but didn't pull it out, and Castiel's gaze flitted to the motion instantly. "I don't know if—if this matters to angels that much, and honestly, I don't really care. I know you know what this means, so I _know_ you understand what I'm trying to do. And maybe I'm doing a shitty job of it, but I _really_ want to spend however long I got left on this earth with you as—as my…as my husband. So, uh, would you do that? Would you wanna be my husband, Cas?" 

Dean pulled the box out and fumbled with shaking fingers, trying to get it open, but he couldn't make his hands work and he cursed sharply, eyes sinking shut in shame. He didn't see it, but he felt it when smooth hands slid over his trembling fingers and lips brushed gently against his. Dean made a small, broken sound in the back of his throat as Castiel kissed him softly, holding Dean's hands still.

Castiel pulled away after one heart-stopping moment, silently peeling the box from his hands, and Dean opened his eyes to gaze at Castiel helplessly. 

Castiel didn't open the box, simply gazed back at Dean, and he whispered in a throaty rumble full of emotion, "Yes, Dean, of course." 

Relief hit Dean so hard that his knees nearly gave out. He let out a loose breath that trembled on it's way out. His whole body felt like...goo, like he was seconds from turning into a limp noodle. He wanted a fucking nap, actually. Immediately after that thought, the realization that Castiel had actually said _yes_ hit him like a ton of bricks. Joy pressed into every crevice of his body, nearly _giddy,_ and the happiness soaked up energy like a sponge; he felt like he was about to vibrate out of his skin. 

"Yes?" Dean repeated, gripping Castiel's wrists to stare at him seriously. "For real? You're sure?" 

"Yes, I'm sure," Castiel said softly, his lips curling up at the corners oh so sweetly. 

"Holy shit. Holy fucking—okay, yes," Dean stuttered, licking his lips and fighting his smile as he pushed the ring box at Castiel urgently. "It's—you gotta put it on, Cas. To, you know, make it official." 

"Okay," Castiel replied easily, deftly opening the box with a small smile and looking at the ring curiously. He pulled it out and blinked at it, turning it over in his hands, then beamed at Dean. "Oh, this is lovely, Dean, thank you." 

"Fuck. Okay, lemme just—let me," Dean mumbled, fumbling over his words as he reached out to grasp the ring. Castiel watched him patiently, and they stared at each other as Dean slowly slid the ring on the third finger on his left hand. It fit perfectly and sat just right, looking like it had settled down where it belonged, and Dean could feel pride swelling bright and warm in his chest. It really _was_ Castiel's ring, no doubt about it. "Jesus Christ." 

Castiel eyed the ring in open approval, little vain angel that he was, and he looked stupidly pleased. Dean was so utterly fucked _up_ by that. He smacked the ring box to the floor and shuffled forward to yank Castiel close, threading their fingers together as he pushed in to kiss Castiel as deeply as he could whilst smiling like a fool. He could feel the ring against his skin, cool and thin, and Dean kinda wanted to cry. 

Dean wanted to kiss him hard and intense, but they were smiling far too much to manage it. They came to the mutual agreement without ever speaking to just fucking _hug,_ tucking faces into each other's necks, clenching at shoulders and hair, and maybe Dean cried a little bit, but Castiel was the best goddamn soon-to-be husband in the world because he didn't mention it. For a long time, they didn't move, just clinging to each other. 

Then Castiel pulled away slowly to look Dean in the eyes. "I love you," he murmured. "Those words feel imposterous because they cannot encompass the feelings I have for you, but no words truly can. I hope you know anyway." 

"Man, you have no _idea,"_ Dean choked out, blinking rapidly. "Well, I guess you do, but fuck." 

Castiel smiles brightly, wide and gummy, lighting his eyes up. "Should we go tell—" 

Dean jerked back, eyes wide. "Oh shit! Sam, Jack! SAMMY!" He whirled around, keeping his grip on Castiel's left wrist and yanking them into the hall where Sam and Jack came spilling out with wide, hopeful eyes. "He said yes! He fuckin' said yes!" 

Dean flapped Castiel's hand at them while they barreled over, letting out celebratory whoops as they moved. Castiel was quiet as they talked over each other, poking at his hand and asking for details, but his silence was the peaceful kind. Dean could tell he was pleased, endlessly so, and he felt the exact same. 

He'd never been this goddamn content in his life. 

Later, Dean would lay out on his bed in nothing but a big, red bow that covered his crotch, and Castiel would pull it away and get started on taking him apart with his hands, one glinting with the silver ring that Dean put there, and Dean would learn that he could become even _more_ content. 

He didn't mind being wrong about that. 

❄ ❄ ☃ ❄ ❄ 

Dean woke up in the dead of night, groaning quietly as he rolled over. Castiel wasn't in bed, which meant he was probably using the light in the library to avoid bothering Dean. That was nice and all, but Dean would've liked waking up to the sight of Castiel turning pages with a ring on his finger. It had only been a day, but Dean was _still_ excited about it. The consistently _amazing_ sex had definitely helped, not that sex with Castiel isn't always amazing, but this felt slightly different in the best way. 

Unfortunately, Dean was half-ass awake with a slight pounding in his head and a twinge in his back, so he doubted he'd go right back to sleep. He needed to piss, which must be why he woke up. 

Grumbling, Dean shuffled out of the room and yawned wide enough to crack his jaw. It was only three in the morning, but Dean felt like he'd been asleep for years. And it felt like he'd been put through the wringer in those years. He was so damn tired that he stumbled into the doorway to the bathroom because he felt his hip brush up against it. 

Eyes still closed, he went about doing his business, fumbling against his twisted up, bulging shirt. After, he moved over to the sink to wash his hands, blearily peering into the mirror. 

Dean was suddenly very much awake. 

His beard, which he'd shaved before _bed,_ literally three hours ago, was now full and reaching mountain-man levels of length. He could pull on it, could dip the tips of his fingers into it and watch them disappear. There was a silver-fox look to it, gray hairs surrounded by sandy brown. 

Slowly, with his heart racing in his chest, Dean looked down at his stomach. It wasn't his fucking _shirt_ that was bulging out around his waist, it was his fucking gut. Again! Frantically, Dean stumbled back to see his whole body in the mirror, twisting around to take in his widened hips and round midsection. He wasn't Santa sized yet, but it would only be a matter of time. 

The curse had never broken. The curse had never fucking _broken!_

For a moment, Dean just stared mindlessly at his reflection, stuck on the edge of having a whole fucking _fit._ It was a close thing, but he just barely managed to keep from screaming. 

And then, abruptly, Dean calmed down. He stared at his reflection and considered it. Castiel loved that person, even when he wasn't himself one month out of the year, loved him like no other. That was Castiel's _fiance,_ and Castiel would kick his ass if Dean freaked out and raged like he did last time. And maybe it wasn't all great being Santa Claus, but Dean was hard-pressed to find a reason he wasn't thankful for the experience. 

Strange as it was, Dean kind of...wanted to do it again. The good parts had been _really_ fucking good and the effects of it had been long lasting. He'd gotten Castiel, he'd unlocked a willingness to fall in love with all the things in his life he never really stopped to appreciate before. And hell, doing what he'd done for those kids and some of their parents had felt downright _good,_ the same way he felt when he walked away from a hunt after saving lives. 

No wonder he wanted to do it again. 

So, Santa-bod and elves and reindeer and sleigh-baby and chimneys and cookies and gifts; round two. This time, Dean was going to milk it for everything it was worth. 

Looked like Santa was back in town. 

Stepping forward to glare at his reflection challengingly, he declared, "Ho ho ho, here we go again." 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

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